Tracks: The 150th Hunger Games SYOT closed
by Taylur
Summary: "As a reminder to the rebels that even when the Capitol displayed generosity and gifts to the Districts, the Rebels destroyed themselves by Rebelling, every tribute will be granted one enhancement, mental or physical." With enhanced strengths in the Arena, will your tribute survive?
1. Let the Flames Begin

**Head Gamekeeper, Felix Calise;;**

"A-Are you sure about this, President Ember?"

The President, a woman who appeared to be no older than late 20's, stretched her legs out, propping them up upon the ebony table in front of the plush white couch. She tilts her head back, hazel hair tied up in a ponytail pouring over the back of the couch. "Why wouldn't I be, Felix?"

I scratch the back of my neck, shrugging. "I dunno. Just that, you know, it's an expensive twist."

President Ember closes her eyes, her amber eyes the color of flames themselves, and sighs. "Trust me Felix, prices will be no issue for us. The ratings will be higher than they've ever been. Don't you trust me?"

I swing my legs a bit, now sitting on my hands. "I suppose so. Don't you think we could do something a bit more. . subtle? With the rebellion and-"

Her eyes immediately flicker open, "What did you just say?" President Ember's voice is smooth and calm, eyes slowly flickering to the side to glance at me.

"Well," I begin slowly, wording my sentences carefully, "I'm sure you've heard about the acts of rebellion in District Eleven. Some Peackeepers are guessin' it's only a matter of time 'for Eleven gets some other Districts in on it, too."

President Ember stands up slowly, stalking over towards me, her long legs walking in long and slow strides, a mutt approaching its prey. She bends down in front of me, our eyes locked.

Looking into them, I can see the one alteration President Ember had on her. Tiny, synthetic flames implanted into her pupils. It casts a soft shadow around her eye sockets, her amber eyes flickering like candle light against the fake flames.

"The Games, Felix," she begins, "Were made to stop rebellions. This year shall be no different. After all," her breath smells of smores, a rare treat to have, even in the Capitol. Marshmellows are extremely hard to come by, you know. "This is a Quarter Quell. We will show them that no matter what they throw at us, we are stronger."

I nod slowly, running my tongue against the back of my front teeth. "Yes, President Ember."

She smiles slowly, white teeth contrasting perfectly against her full, coral lips. "Good. I'll see you later tonight, then, yes?" Her eyes dart behind my shoulder, to the holographic screen. "Go ahead and submit that Quarter Quell twist to the others, hm? I've got to get to the stylists."

President Ember stands up, stretching leisurely, arms behind her head. "Um, y-yes. Have a good evening, Ms. President." I lick my lips slightly, then turn around to face the computer.

As soon as I hear the click of the door closing, my fingers begin to tap the neon green keys of the keyboard floating in the air.

_President Ember has informed of this year's Quarter Quell twist. . ._

* * *

**President Ambrosia Ember;;  
**  
"You've outdone yourself again, Iris," A hand on my hip, I stand with perfect posture in front of the mirror. My amber eyes flicker with amusement, and fake flame, of course.

Iris merely smirks, standing on her tiptoes to tuck a loose strand of cocoa hair behind my ear. "Oh, the best deserve the best, right?"

I nod slowly, examining my outfit. My strapless dress is a collage of different shades of black;; a bit of gray, a bit of white. With the slightest movement, it gives off the illusion of movement, of smoke. There are tiny maroon gemstones tucked and hidden, flickering like flames.  
The bottom flows to my ankles, hugging every curve in my body. My hair has been done in a bun, a piece of hair framing my face on either side. Pure black sparkles are scattered in it, glittering with the dress.

Iris has yet again embraced my name;; she has turned me into an ember. I am not just part of the fire, for I burn the brightest.

"President Ember, you're on in thirty." A man in a crisp white uniform, a black headpiece on his ear sticks his head in the doorway and quickly disappears.

My stylist immediately plants her bony fingers on my shoulders, steering me out of the dressing room. "You'll do lovely." She tucks the strand of hair behind my ear again, gently rubs my cheeks to blend out the thin layer of brush, and smiles with satisfaction.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, you know her as your rolemodel, and we know her as President Ambrosia Ember, here to announce the 150th Quarter Quell!"

As I walk out onto stage, I can hear Iris hissing behind me, "Pretty feet! Pretty feet! Pretty fingers!"

Biting back a laugh, I point my toes, extending my fingers at my sides, walking with confident strides. A smile spreads across my face, my eyes automatically locking with a few member's of the audience's.

"Hello, citizens of Panem!" As soon as the last syllable gets out of my mouth, a loud applause overtakes my voice.

"Are you ready to hear what special twist your lucky twenty four tributes will be encountering?"

A young man, Felix's nephew, with ashy hair and olive skin, hurries out, tripping over his own shoes, which are obviously too big for him.  
He gets on one knee, holding up a brown wooden box. There are hundreds of crisp, white index cards. Of course, only the one at the very bottom has even a word written on it. The rest are blank.

With a curt nod, I dive my hand into the box, digging around every which way. I grab one index card, purse my lips, then drop it. My fingers scrape against the wooden bottom, and I instantly snatch up the card closest.

There's no sound in the room except for the click of my heels as I return to the microphone. Felix's nephew remains on his knee, though his head is tilted up to watch me.

I lick my bottom lip, unfolding the card slowly. I clear my throat, hold up the unfolded card, and without even looking down, announce,

**"As a reminder to the rebels that even when the Capitol displayed generosity and gifts to the Districts, the Rebels destroyed themselves by Rebelling, every tribute will be granted one enhancement, mental or physical."**

* * *

**_A/N:_**  
Hey guys (:

So, I typically hate writing Quarter Quells, since they really are a bit cliche. . But I do like this twist. I'll be posting another chapter with the tribute list once I get a tribute/tributes in. Here is the list of enhancements that will be offered;

**MENTAL:**  
- Healing knowledge: Once the surgery has been complete, your tribute will have basic knowledge on healing. They'll know what herbs can help with stings, burns, etc.

- Survival knowledge: Your tribute will be given basic survival knowledge. How to start fires, conserve and collect water, and tie knots.

- Navigational knowledge: After the surgery, your tribute will have a decent memory and sense of direction. If they need to find that pond again, they'll remember exactly where it is.

- Weaponry knowledge: Your tribute will choose one weapon in which they will learn how to properly yield. This won't increase their strength, they'll just know how to use it. If you choose this enhancement, please be sure to include what weapon you'd like them to know about.

- Edible food/plants knowledge: Once the surgery is done, your tribute will be able to tell what plants are good for eating, or which are poisonous.

**PHYSICAL:**  
- Increased stamina: Your tribute will be able to run, swim, walk, and climb for a longer time. Doesn't affect speed.

- Increased upper-body strength: Once complete, the surgery will increase your tribute's arm and chest strength. Good for weapons such as bows, axes, etc.

- Enhanced sight: Your tribute will be able to see from long distances. Even in the dark, your tribute can see perfectly from 300 yards away.

- Enhanced hearing: Once complete, the surgery will allow your tribute to be able to hear a leaf crunching from miles away.

- Increased lower-body strength: Your tribute's lower body strength will be increased. They'll be able to swim, run, and walk faster.

- Enhanced smell: Once complete, the surgery will allow your tribute to smell from miles away. They can smell if their water is poisonous, if the food is safe to eat, etc. They'll also be able to track a specific scent, once they catch a whiff of it.

**FORM FOR DEMONS:**

Name:

District:

Appearance:

Age:

Gender:

Reaped or Volunteer?:

If Volunteered, why?:

Alternation (only one):

Personality:

Family/Friends/History:

Token:

Strengths:

Weaknesses:

Preferred Weapon:

Strategy:

Possible Alliances:

Biggest fears:

***FORMS ARE ONLY ACCEPTED THROUGH PM. IF YOU SEND IT THROUGH REVIEW, YOU WON'T EVEN BE CONSIDERED.***

***NO MARY SUES OR GARY STUS WILL BE ALLOWED. IF I DON'T RESPOND TO YOUR PM, IT MOST LIKELY MEANS YOU WERE REJECTED***


	2. It's Up To Fate (The Tributes)

**President Ambrosia Ember;;**

"You're sure that these tributes will guarantee us to have a spectacular Games?" I knit my eyebrows together, craning my neck to see the hologram better.

Felix nods violently, "Oh, yes. We checked, doublechecked, and triplechecked them," He types something on his keyboard, and a closeup of all the tributes begin to appear on the screen, one by one.

They look innocent, truly. Wide-eyed, clear skin, innocent smiles. Even the Careers, who try so hard to convince us that they are blood-thirsty, look like nothing more than children who just so happened to be born wealthy.

I cross my arms, nodding slowly. "And the predictions for the Victor?"

He reaches his hand up to the screen and flicks open his fingers, as though he's splattering water onto it after washing his hands. The screen splits into sixths, each section holding a picture of a tribute.

"Careers, as always, President."

I nod slowly, "The ones from the outer districts, Eleven and Twelve, have no chance of winning, correct?"

Together, Districts Eleven and Twelve have only won six times. That's six times too many. Six times a Career could of won. Six times I had a riot on my hands. _Six times that will not happen again._

Felix presses a button, and a bar graph pops up. The first few bars are sky high, and as the numbers go on, the bars rapidly decrease. "See that red bar?"

I squint my eyes, leaning in over his shoulder, "No."

He smirks, tapping the touch screen three times. A red bar at the very end suddenly enlargens, revealing itself to my eyes. "This is District Twelve's chance of winning and this," - he swipes to the left- "Is Eleven's."

"Well, Felix," I put a hand on his shoulder, giving it a tight and firm squeeze, "Print those names out for me, will you? I'll inform the District Peacekeepers."

"Mmhmm," With a push of a button, twelve pieces of white paper fly out of the small compartment next to Felix's desk, words finely etched on all of them. "There you go, President Ember, the names of our tributes for the 250th Hunger Games."

I smile, picking up the stack of papers and shuffling them, "Thank you."

* * *

THE TRIBUTES;;

_District One:_  
**Female:** Amythest 'Amy' Callero (15) (PandaEyedDetective)  
**Male: **Quartz Markov (16) (PandaEyedDetective)**  
**

_District Two: _  
**Female:** Cassida Caine (17) (PandaEyedDetective)  
**Male**: Alexander 'Alex' Conlon (17) (Lyra040)

_District Three:  
_**Female:** Della Techrium (16) (MirageMeister)  
**Male: **Leo Costello (14) (PandaEyedDetective)**  
**

_District Four:_  
**Female:** Keira Elizabeth Haynes (17) (Angrybirdx)  
**Male: **Sebastien Sterling (17) (PandaEyedDetective)**  
**

_District Five:_  
**Female:** Evie Lavine (15) (x FallingAshes x)  
**Male**: Colton Avalanche (12) (Taylur-Bloodbath)

_District Six:_  
**Female:** Althaea "Ally" Crimson (16) (MirageMeister)  
**Male: **Erik Sonce (17) (MirageMeister)

_District Seven:_  
**Female:** Marzia Blackwoods (15) (The Valiant Warrior)  
**Male:** Timber Cherrywood (17) (The PocketWatch Ripper)

_District Eight:_  
**Female: **Kaia "K" Kaskerie (17) (MirageMeister)  
**Male: **Marcus Wolden (17) (The First Maraudette)**  
**

_District Nine:_  
**Female:** Callia Rivera (17) (SummerWillowSkye)  
**Male: **Miles Young (13) (Taylur-Bloodbath)**  
**

_District Ten:_  
**Female:** Joslin Feather (16) (whereisthekoolaidat)  
**Male: **Victor Galloway (16) (The Valiant Warrior)**  
**

_District Eleven:_  
**Female:** Anise O'Toulac (17) (Mehane)  
**Male**: Ronaldo Da'Vinchi (14) (Taylur-Bloodbath)

_District Twelve:  
_**Female:** Faye Monroe (14) (PandaEyedDetective)  
**Male: **Tiresias "Ressi" Losoffy (16) (PyroKwarius)**  
**

* * *

**A/N:**

**Okay, I just wanted to clear up that just because my characters said 11/12 won't win, and 1, 2, or 4 will, that doesn't mean that's 100% true. The Capitol just thinks that. So doesn't be discouraged because you think your tribute won't win. o:**


	3. Just Be

**A/N: Long chapter ahead.**

* * *

Easy breeze and hugs and kisses,

Won't you stay, baby?

We'll just be. . .

**- Just Be, Ashley Jana**

* * *

**JUST BE;**

**001. Mags**  
Mags was a little girl when the first Rebellion was going on. Although she is 84, Mags has faint memories of her brother, herself, and her mother - Mags' mother told her that father could never come, because he was out at sea on a neverending adventure - racing down the beach, laughing and seeing who could find the prettiest sea glass in the sand. Mags' mother always won.

Then, she turned ten, and the Hunger Games began. Mags doesn't remember those first games, she only remembers every station on their television playing them, and no matter how much she tried to get away from it, the Games followed.

Mags remembers that two houses' lights from her District, or Legions as they were called before the Games, never turned on. Whenever she walked by those houses, both painted a pastel color, like all of the homes in Four, the curtains were always closed, lights always out. "The people in those homes are very upset, Mags," her mother would say as she braided her daughter's hair.

"Why, mama?", She would ask, and her mother's fingers would linger away from her hair. "Their children are on a never ending adventure out in the ocean, like Daddy. They're all adventuring together, Mags."

Mags would knit her eyebrows together and slowly say, "Why didn't the mama and Daddy go with their children?" Her mother would get up from the stool behind Mags, the one she always sat on to braid hair, and instantly collect Mags in a hug, whispering, "I don't know, Mags. Just promise me you'll stay here, safe, with me. Don't leave me to go on an adventure."

"Alright, mama."

The next year, when Mags was the very fragile age of eleven, her brother's name was called. Percy Sarno was taken away from their baby-blue painted home, and he never came back. Mags saw her brother have a knife thrown at him, wedging itself right in his neck.

When Mags was 16, she was reaped.

Mags won by knowing how to climb a tree.

All of her memories of being a Mentor have slowly begun to slip away from her. Mags only remembers mentoring Finnick Odair, whispering stories of the Greek gods into his ear after he returned from winning. Finnick Odair had nightmares, and Finnick Odair depended on Mags telling him fairytales to fall asleep.

When Annie Cresta's name was called out in the 75th Hunger Games, Mags volunteered.

Mags Sarno, the girl who had her brother ripped away from her, was thrown into the Games, and volunteered for a distressed young woman, walked into the poisnous Mist after planting a kiss on Finnick Odair's mouth.

She is currently on a never ending adventure out at sea.

**002. Woof**  
Woof was District Eight's first Victor.

The Arena he was thrown into was a pure white room. There was no Cornucopia. A maze revealed itself after the gong rang, the walls pure white.

On the second day, a ringing made its way into the Tributes' ears. Most went insane and killed themselves.

Woof was lifted up by one of the helicopters, sobbing and curled up in a ball. The ringing from his first Arena never left his ears. His dreams were always the white maze, the pure white maze with no way out.

When Woof had a spear thrown at his stomach in the 75th Hunger Games, he was glad.

He had finally found the exit to the pure white maze with no way out.

**003. Bloom**  
Bloom didn't want to be Victor. She won by chance, by hiding out for her entire Games. The boy from District Two, with a bow, and the girl from Four, with a trident, killed each other. Bloom was hiding in the trees just above them when they both fell to the ground, dead.

She tried to kill herself using the small pocket knife from her backpack. The helicopter with claws picked her up just seconds after the blade pierced her stomach.

Bloom liked the boy from District Twelve, with the blonde hair and blue eyes that reminded her of the lakes in her District. She didn't want him to die. Bloom dived in front of the boy from Twelve. The monkeys were mean. They hurt her very badly.

When Bloom's eyes closed for the last time, she felt a rush a bit like Morphling, one of her favorite things. There was a tingling in her body, and the last thing she saw was the boy from District Twelve's eyes, bright blue lakes glittering.

**004. Seeder**  
She lived a simple life, just a baby when the first Rebellion started. Seeder only remembers crawling through the orchads, and everyone laughing because Seeder was just a baby, and Seeder was just so cute. When she tried running through the orchards when Seeder was thirteen, it wasn't cute anymore.

Seeder was the first child to get whipped in public.

She was also the first female Victor from District Eleven. Seeder won her Games by putting poisonous plants in the Career's food, squirting juice from the black berries that she knew where poisnous into their food.

Seeder thought of Rue as she died. She remembered Rue hugging her tightly as soon as the little girl got on her train, whispering, "I'm sorry, Seeder."

**005. Beetee**

Beetee wasn't supposed to win the Hunger Games. He was supposed to die in the Bloodbath, and be forgotten quickly.

Beetee was intelligent, and he was friends with the Mayor's son. His friend promised to send him three things in the Arena, whatever Beetee wanted, when he wanted. Beetee wasn't one to brush of people's offers, especially when they could mean life or death. He whispered what he would want in his friend's ear.

When Beetee escaped the Bloodbath and shimmied himself up into a tree, making a curtain out of leaves to shield him, he was sure that someone would find him. The Gamemakers would see him and send Careers after him, or even Mutts.

After a day of Beetee living off a strip of beef jerkey and a few sips of water from his backpack and nobody found him, he was convinced he was just brilliant at hiding.

On the second day, three parachutes appeared on the ground near the tree he was hiding in. Beetee began to work on the trap that would make him a Victor.

In the 75th Hunger Games, Beetee was killed in the Bloodbath, just like he was supposed to in his first Hunger Games.

Beetee's intelligence didn't protect him from the knife entering his neck.

**006. Chaff**  
Chaff is partial to the Hunger Games, for they gave him the one person he lives for: Haymitch Abernathy.

They see each other once a year, to talk about the tributes they're supposed to be mentoring, though they both know they'll die.

Chaff didn't make an alliance in his second Games. He didn't want to be around the Careers, whom the Cameras would surely be following as they stalked the Mockingjay. Chaff didn't want to be with the Mockingjay herself, because of course there would always be a camera trained on the symbol of the Rebellion.

He didn't want Haymitch to see him die.

As Peeta, the Mockingjay's prince, stabs him blindly, Brutus doesn't even wince. He only blames himself, for he got too close to the wonderful and fabulous Peeta, whom the cameras love oh-so-much, and the one joy in Chaff's life is most likely watching him die.

**007. Brutus**  
Brutus was raised in a family of Victors. His mind was programmed to think that killing is the one way to get what you want.

When he volunteered at the age of 18, Brutus chose not to dive for the weapons in the golden Cornucopia. Brutus' dad told him that using weapons was for the weak, so Brutus got straight to the killing.

The instant the gong rang, Brutus' hands were wrapped tightly around the twelve year old girl's neck from District Three. Brutus killed 9 people with his bare hands.

He killed the Careers the next day.

As Brutus walked away from the Career's camp site, smiling, he fingered his new necklace, the girl from One's token, splattered with blood. He had taken the honor to take the others' Tokens, tying them onto the string.

Brutus was confused when he received no parachutes his entire Game experience. The audience wanted killing. He had given them plenty of that.

In Brutus' second Games, he chose to use a weapon.

When Peeta Mellark, the Golden tribute who can do no wrong, kills him during his second Games, Brutus silently thanks him.  
Brutus had enough blood on his hands; he's happy to pass it on to someone else.

**008. Wiress**  
Wiress won by pure luck. She was in the Games with Titus from District Six, who was a cannibal. Wiress couldn't blame him for eating the girl from District Four after killing her with a rock; there was no food whatsoever in that Arena. The tributes were to depend on sponsors for that.

She was in the final two with Titus. Wiress was running from him, running down a mountain, screeching her head off as he tumbled down after her. That was when the avalanche began.

When Wiress heard the rumbling of snow, she flashed back to one of her science classes back in her District. Rumbling snow was never a good sign. She dived off the mountain, and she landed in a net from the helicopters.

Wiress went crazy in her second Games because of the bloody rain. When she tasted the blood in her mouth, she felt just as mad as Titus.  
She was relieved when her throat was slit, and silently hoped nobody would eat her as she fell limply to the ground.

**009. Finnick**  
Finnick's favorite memories were not from his childhood. His favorite memories were of Mags whispering stories of the brave Greek Gods into his ear.

He remembered the God of the Sea, Poseidon. Finnick remembered Athena, the gray-eyed goddess of Wisdom. He remembered Aphrodite, born from seafoam itself, the most beautiful woman anyone had ever seen.

When Mags kissed him and walked into the Mist, Finnick wasn't worried. He knew that she was going to the Underworld, and she would surely end up in Elysium, because that was where all the heroes went. And in Elysium, Mags would meet all the heroes she talked about. Persues, Odysseus, Jason. .

Finnick was killed by Cashmere. The last thing Finnick remembers seeing is Cashmere's stormy gray eyes staring into his. Even as Cashmere brings down her knife, right to his heart, Finnick remembers the gray-eyed Athena.

A sharp pain fills Finnick's body, but Finnick quickly goes numb to all feeling. He remembers how Annie's favorite goddess was Athena. Finnick remembers how Annie would pout whenever she noticed she didn't have grey eyes.

He remembers Annie.

**0010. Enobaria**  
Enobaria's sharp teeth with golden tips didn't save her from the Mockingjay's arrow flying into her heart.

**0011. Johanna**  
When Johanna was 14, everything was taken away from her. Her brothers were killed in a logging accident, trees 100 times their weight crashing down on them. A month later, her parents were killed in one of the factories, when something went wrong and the building erupted in flames.

Once Johanna's name was called when she was 16, the first tears she cried at the Reaping weren't fake. She thought she was dead for sure. Then Johanna began to remember how her father said crying was for weaklings.

Johanna disagreed. When used on a proper occasion, crying can save your life.

The only good that came from Johanna's Games was Finnick Odair. Deep down inside, Johanna knows that Finnick is like every other Capitol citizen. He's as evil as the men with green-skin and tattooes on their fake abs, and as worthless as the woman with fake breasts and gems implanted in their pupils. Finnick Odair was created by the Capitol.

Everyday she watched Finnick walk off with a woman on each arm, smiling down at them, kissing their cheeks and every other party of their body. At the first party Johanna attended, her first Victor party, she remembers Finnick and her's conversation being cut off by Cashmere.  
As soon as Cashmere stepped in front of Finnick, he grabbed her hand and dragged her into another room, both of them giggling and smiling the entire time.

Johanna refuses to be like that. She was born in District 7. Johanna was taught to live, survive, kill, and cut down trees in District 7. She will be District 7 until she dies.

And she was.

When Peeta accidentally threw his knife at her, thinking she was another tribute, Johanna was District 7. She died with a pine needle taken from her favorite tree in her pocket, and her hand wrapped around an ax.

Johanna Mason died being District 7.

**0012. Katniss  
**The Mockingjay was invincible. More than half of the tributes were playing, knowing very well that they were to die in order for Katniss to live.

The one thing that was not in the rebels' plans was love.

They did not realize that Katniss Everdeen, Mockingjay, was in love with Peeta Mellark. They did not realize that the Girl on Fire would dive in front of Brutus' spear to save the Boy with the Bread.

Just as easily as it was lit, the Girl on Fire's spark was put out.

**0013. Peeta**  
Peeta Mellark dying was never part of the plan. If the Girl on Fire was killed, the Rebellion would survive. Perhaps even thrive.

However, they did not expect for the Boy with the Bread to die. They did not expect for the other half of the star crossed lovers, Katniss, to die, leaving just Peeta, Brutus, Enobaria, Gloss, and Cashmere.

Brutus was dead as soon as Katniss fell to the ground, clutching the spear in her stomach. Gloss and Cashmere took Enobaria together. The Boy with the Bread was cornered by the gorgeous brother and sister duo from District One.

**0014. Gloss**  
Just before his sister, Cashmere, plunges a knife into his heart, she reminds Gloss that he was 20 minutes older than her. Cashmere reminds Gloss that he had one more year to train for the Games than her, one more year to become better.

And Gloss never forgot it.

**0015. Cashmere**  
The girl from District One, who wanted nothing to do with a rebellion, and who wanted the Games to continue, won the 75th Hunger Games.

The star-crossed lovers were dead. The Capitol was able to win the Rebellion, and they reminded the Districts that as quickly as they had come up with their Mockingjay, they had clipped her wings even quicker.

The Games continued.

* * *

**A/N: Yaay! I hope you guys liked this chapter. I know it was really long and probably really boring, but maybe some of you enjoyed it? This was basically just a more unique way of telling you why the Games are still going on. A bunch of oneshots about the Victors from the 75th Games. After a few more tributes, I'll be able to write the first chapter that actually have to do with /these/ Games.**


	4. It's On Me

**A/N: Hey guys (: If you haven't noticed, I'm trying to update about every other day. I also wanted to mention 2 things.. The amount of reviews you post do help your tribute survive! Even now, in the beginning, I will be looking at who does and doesn't review. And the second thing, I really don't want recycled tributes. If you're having trouble developing a tribute, just ask me and I'll gladly help you out. Anywayyyy, on to the chapter. Oh, oh, and, I'd like to mention that this chapter was something of a 'bump'. As in, get the story a bit more attention by posting another chapter, aha. I wrote this very quickly, so it's not spectacular. I can assure you that you'll be seeing much better writing after this.  
**

**Bonus points if you can spot a music-video reference in this chapter ;)**

* * *

_"You're always on display, _  
_For everyone to watch and learn from,_  
_Don't you know by now? You can't turn back. ._  
_Because this road is all you'll ever have."_  
**- Fences, by Paramore.**

* * *

**President Ambrosia Ember;;**

I glide through the restaurant, raising my hand and smiling at the occasional Gamemaker or Peacekeeper.

I'm almost to my destination when a woman with her fiery red hair slicked back into a ponytail slides in front of me, blocking my path. She has her shoulders pulled back, puffing out her surgery-enhanced chest as she sucks in her barely-there gut.

"Hello, President Ember," She purrs, reaching out one of her hands towards me, running a manicured fingernail down my forearm. "What are you doing here on this fine evening?"

My eyes flicker behind her shoulder, trying to send out a 'help me' glare towards the people in front of us, but the woman quickly realizes my attention isn't on her, and she leans to the left, blocking the civillians.

"If you must know," I sigh, defeated, "I'm meeting with some of my colleagues to discuss the Arena for this year's Games, and," I glance down at my wrist, knowing full well there isn't a watch on me, "I'm running late, so I truly must be going."

The woman shakes her head violently, red ponytail swishing behind her, "No, no, no! See, I'm an _intern_." She says the word slowly, exaggerating the two syllables.

I raise an eyebrow, now interested in the conversation, "Intern? I'm afraid you have the wrong person, dear, I'm the _President_. I don't need an _intern_."

She giggles, raising herself up on the balls of her feet, "That man over there," she stands off to the side and points in front of me, "Just hired me! I'm not getting paid, of course, but c'mon, who gets to hang out with the _President_ everyday?"

My eye twitches with annoyance, "You mean, that man with the red hair? With the little stripe of white?" She nods, giving me a thumbs up.

I exhale slowly, closing my eyes. "Alright," I say slowly, my eyes still closed, "Come with me." She gives an excited squeak, waiting for me to take my first step before falling in line behind me.

"- And so then I said, 'Look, Poppy, I really want to. I mean, I _really_ want to. But what about Jasper? Jasper's like a son to me,' and then,-"

"Hello, boys," I say through gritted teeth, standing at the head of the booth table. All conversation stops, and the man's who was previously talking voice slowly fades, his story coming to an end.

They all exchange looks, the man with the red and white hair, the man with the curly blonde hair, and the one with long hair that's such a rich shade of black, it almost looks purple. "President Ember!" They slur, all getting on their feet.

"I see you've met Vivia. Isn't she sweet?" The red-haired one, Copperwood, gestures towards the blushing redhead next to me with a wink.

"The sweetest." I mutter, sliding into the booth next to him. Vivia slips into the seat across from me, between the blonde and brunette.

Copperwood gives a husky laugh and turns to face me, back pressed against the short glass wall separating our table from the one next to us, "You missed my story, Ambrosia! You know Poppy, the feisty blonde with the huge ti-"

I hold my hand up, glaring at him, "I didn't come here to discuss your lovelife, Dare. I called you all here to talk about the _Arena_."

He nods, grinning, "Right, right, sorry," Copperwood pauses to take a sip of his purple wine,"Sometimes I just forget you're the President now."

My nostrils flare, my lips pursed, "I've been President for _three years_ now, Copperwood." I can't help the twinge of pride that enters my bloodstream, and I puff my chest out a bit.

Peris, the one with curly blonde locks, sighs impatiently, "Three years of bickering like schoolchildren," He places a black folder onto the glass table, "If you don't mind, I'd love to get back to business. In this folder, I have the basic idea of the Arena."

Three sets of eyes are glaring down at the folder hungrily, "Very well then, Peris. Please, show us what you've come up with."

He smiles brightly and opens the folder. Peris slides a picture out of the pocket, and closes the folder once again. "_This_," he places the picture in the center of the table, "is a wraith."

The photo has a skeletal looking creature, crouched down with its arms in front of it. Its blue eyes are glowing brightly, casting a glare on the photo. "Alright," I shrug, "What are we going to do with it?"

Peris glares up at me, annoyance in his gaze, "The wraith was an urban legend back in the Dark Days. People used to tell the little ones that this creature," he gestured towards the photo, "would find them if they walked in a forest, and shred them to pieces with its claws."

I bite down on my lower lip, eyes still glued to the photo, "How is this going to help us, Peris?"

He laughs softly and slides the photo off the table, holding it up to his eyes. "We're going to make our own, President Ambrosia," Peris licks his lips eagerly, "and we're going to set it loose in the Arena to tear the tributes to bits."

Copperwood immediately bursts into laughter. "Are you shittin' me, Peris? What kinda idea is _that_?"

Peris rolls his eyes impatiently, clenching his jaw, "It's a great idea. Instead of making a dozen mutts, we just make one. It's something the crowd has never seen before, too."

Morrell pushes a strand of black hair out of his face and pushes his lips out, contemplating the idea, "Well, it's not the worst suggestion we've heard," he glares at Copperwood for a moment, "and it _could_ be interesting."

Copperwood scoffs, "Oh, please. This looks like a badly-created prop for some Z-list movie."

"I think it's wonderful," Vivia speaks softly, staring at Peris in amazement. "Nobody knows anything about the Dark Days. None of the tributes will know how to defeat it!"

The table falls silent for a solid minute before all eyes turn towards me.

"Morrell, send an order to Head Gamekeeper Felix tomorrow," I turn to face him, staring into his purple eyes, "tell him to begin to work on the wraith." Morrell nods quickly, sliding his hands off the table and into his lap.

"Now," I lock eyes with each of them, smiling brightly, "What do you guys want to drink? Anything you like-it's on me."


	5. Words Better Left Unsaid

**A/N:**** Hello all you wonderful people! This is the last Capitol chapter before I get to work on the Reapings. They'll be posted in 3 parts:: 8 tributes' POV the day before the Reaping, 8 tributes' POV during the Reaping, and finally, 8 tributes' POV during goodbyes/after the Reaping. Sound fair? Good! I'm also planning to make a blog. I myself hate blogs for stories, but it seems to be the new 'thing'. Being an absolute perfectionist, however, I can basically assure you that this blog won't be your usual cheesy website thrown together in 30 minutes. I'll be using celebrity look-a-likes based on the appearance you gave me. Link will be posted next chapter, so if you're unhappy with the celebrity I chose to represent your tribute, just PM me. I have a decent amount of tributes, but I do need more before I can start the Reapings. I really don't want to write a chapter with just female tributes. I might make a few Bloodbath characters, if I really to.**

**^Sorry for the long author's note. Sighs.**

* * *

Louder louder  
And we'll run for our lives  
I can hardly speak I understand  
Why you can't raise your voice to say**  
-Run, by Snow Patrol.**

* * *

**Prima Hardgrove;; 15;; Capitol Citizen**

Walking through the rain, I pull my purple rubbery rain jacket closer towards me. Nobody else is dressed in rubber, like me. All the other brightly colored people are standing around, laughing and talking, like the rain doesn't even exist.

To them, I guess it doesn't. My Dad once told me that when you turn 21, you're taken to Surge, where you get a chip - no bigger than a cookie, mind you- implanted into your head. Supposedly, it makes your body oblivious to rain, water-proof to it, I suppose you could say.

That's just one example as to how we're so _bizarre_. We all go around the system, beat Mother Nature, ignore how the world is really _supposed_ to work. Human beings aren't supposed to be neon green, their hair shouldn't be be pastel colors, and we most definitely shouldn't be water-proof to rain.

I hate this city. The people. The way we speak. The buildings. Every single aspect of the Capitol makes me want to puke.

"Prim-aaaaaa!" Someone with a bubbly voice, soaked in a highly-trained Capitol accent screeches my name from behind me. "Prima-la!"

I grit my teeth. I only know one person who's so obsessed with adding 'la' and 'wa' to her friends' names. "Lola-wa!" I screech with equal enthusiasm, spinning on my heel to face her.

Lola is waving frantically, running at full speed towards me. She's grinning widely, her rose-colored hair pinned up in a tight bun. "Prim-la, you won't believe me, I got my first surge today!" Her voice comes out in a quick and hushed tone.

"Oh, really?" I look her up and down. Tan skin, no tattoos. Same eye color. Same hair color. Same Lola. "Where?" I try to add as much charisma as hers into my voice, pushing myself forward on the balls of my feet.

Lola straightens her pure white rain coat, wiping off rain droplets from her sleeve that are quickly replaced with new ones as she puts her shoulders back, tilting her chin slightly up with perfect posture. "Get closer."

I raise an eyebrow, "Um, pardon?" She squeals with delight, shaking her head like a dog drying itself off, "Get _closer_!" Lola repeats.

Clearing my throat, I lean in closer and narrow my eyes. There's a slight sparkle in Lola's eyes, and I put my face right in front of hers, our noses about to touch.

Lightning bolts.

Lola has lightning bolts in her eyes. "That's. . That's very unique, Lola-wa." She knits her eyebrows together and opens her mouth slightly, "Y-Y-You don't like it, do you?"

She looks genuinely hurt, as though she's about to cry. "No!" I say quickly, "I love it! It's _totally_ fabulous-making!"

Instantly, her face lights up. "You think so? The brightness of the bolts depends on how happy I am. _See_?" She puts her finger tips on the edge of her eyes. Sure enough, the lightning bolts flash almost as brightly as the ones lighting up our sky now. "So fabulous-making, Prima, _so_ fabulous-making."

I laugh nervously, rubbing the back of my neck. "Gee, Lola, I seriously wish I had a Surge as pretty-making as yours."

Lola waves her hand in the air dismissively, "Don't worry, Prima-la, once you turn sixteen, I'll take you to get Surge myself! Everyone will be totally jealous of it, too. Maybe you can get lightning bolts, like me!"

"Maybe," I manage a half-smile. "You know, it's a bit cold out here. Want to head to the Cafe, Lola-wa?"

"Absolutely, Prima-la!"

* * *

"So, Prima," Lola takes a tentative sip of her lime-green fizzy water, "What District are you betting on?" Whenever she talks about the Games, like everyone else in this Sector, she immediately becomes excited. A live television event with children fighting the death, what's not be excited about?

"The Careers, I suppose."

She lets out a loud gasp, slamming her fist down on the table. "Prima-La!" She whines, scrunching up her face, "That is _so_ bogus-making! _Everyone_ bets on the Careers!"

"Who are you betting on, then?" I manage to swallow a sip of the hot-pink fizzy water, which tastes like some combination of rotten eggs and cat food. Or, according to the menu, Strawberries and Cream.

Lola groans impatiently, twirling the straw in her drink, "Prima, if you keep this up, I'll have to stop hanging out with you. _Anyone_ who's _anyone_ in Sector Three is betting on District Eight."

I can't help but feel surprised, "Eight? Really? They're usually, you know, Bloodbaths."

"We all decided that's totally boring-making. Only Sectors One, Two, and Twelve, are betting on the Careers," Lola frowns and pauses to take a sip of her drink, "Haven't you been reading the latest holograms?"

"Not really," I shrug, "What's wrong with the Careers? They almost always win, don't they?"

"Well, Daddy says with the rebelli-" Her eyes widen and she puts a hand over her glossy lips, "F-f-forget I said that!" Lola's lightning-bolt eyes are flickering from side to side, a panicked expression on her face.

My eyes are widening as well, but not with fear. "What?" I hiss quietly, "There's a _Rebellion_? Where? Here? The Districts? One of the other Sectors?"

Lola grabs her purse from the empty chair, swinging it over her shoulder as she hastily stands up, "I-I-I don't know." As she pushes her chair in, she meets my eyes, "Prima, please," her voice is filled with desperation. She sounds nothing like the Lola I know. "_Please_ forget I said anything. They're probably listening to us now. J-just get your things and go home."

"Lola!" I grab her wrist, squeezing it gently, "You can't go now. Not when you just told me there's a rebellion. What else did your Dad say? Why isn't anyone betting on the Careers?"

Her eyes are filling with tears, like rain to go with the lightning bolts in her eyes. "I'm sorry," Lola whispers, "Maybe I'll tell you. L-later, not here." Her eyes flicker up towards the corner of the wall behind us, where the cameras typically are. "See you later."

After I let go of her wrist, Lola practically sprints out the door, wrapping her arms around her chest, pressing her raincoat closer to her as she kicks up puddles with her boots.

Sighing, I sink back down into my seat. I can't help the twinge of hope that's swelling inside my stomach. Maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to leave. Run off to one of the Districts, perhaps.

All I know is: this is my chance.

* * *

**A/N: ****Yep, another author's note. This one's short though, I promise.  
I just wanted to point out that just because Lola said that everyone's betting for D8, that ****doesnot mean District 8 is going to win.** **Nor does it mean the Careers, or anyone else for that matter, won't. She's just a Capitol teenager going with the trends, right? Also, I wanted to apologize for the lame chapter. Expect longer chapters, shorter authors notes, and better writing once I get all the tributes in. (:  
**


	6. Together or Not at All

**A/N:  
The first Reaping chapter! Yay! I'm so excited to get this out there. I know a lot of you were waiting for the Reapings. I have one more spot left! _The Female tribute from District Three_. The blog is finished! I'll put the link at the end of the chapter. If you're tribute is in this chapter, and they volunteered, I probably didn't mention it. I'll be mentioning who volunteered/reaped throughout the story c: Hope you enjoy~ Oh, and I get the song I picked doesn't quite have anything to do with this chapter... But it's one of my favorites, so eheheh (: Now. . . Let's meet your first 8 tributes!  
**

_(the selection of tributes for this chapter was completely random, courtesy of random . org)_

* * *

"Heart's on fire tonight  
Feel my bones ignite  
Feels like war, war.  
We go together or  
we don't go down at all."**  
-A Love Like War, All Time Low ft. Vic Fuentes**

* * *

**Joslin Feather, District 10 Female 16**  
"Then, just when the girl from District Four thought she won," Chane's face shows no emotion as she talks, her voice extremely monotone. She throws a bail of hay onto the shelf like it's a feather, "The guy from District Two leapt right out from the bushes, his sword in hand."

The barn has gone silent, everyone hanging onto Chane's every word. The only noise in the room is the occasional cluck from the roosters, or a rustle of hay. "Girl didn't stand a chance 'gainst him. Poor thing tried to dive into the water, 'cause Careers don't usually know how to swim, but the blade pressed into her neck 'for she could even leap."

The young girl sitting on a barrel raises her hand tentatively into the air, brown eyes darting side to side nervously. Chane nods her head absentmindedly, telling the girl to go on as she heaves a sack of seeds up.

"D-D-Didn't ya say the District Two boy died? Y'all said he died first. First Career in history to die first in the Killing Games, right?"

Chane glances back at the girl, the flicker of a smile on her face, "That's what everyone thought, Hadley. Turns out District Two was smarter than we all thought. Played dead in the Cornucopia, see. The Capitol knew he wasn't dead, sent in one of them hoverplanes to trick the audience into thinkin' he was dead."

Hadley rubs her forearm, biting down on her lip. "Y'all mean to say that he sorta _came back to life?_

Chane shrugs, "I s'pose. Y'know," Her dark blue eyes flicker to the entrance of the barn, where I'm crouching carefully as I wait for the signal, "Some folks say the boy never died. Even though his Games happened over 80 years ago, folks claim he's still around. In fact," She moistens her lips cautiously, pressing her back against the side of the barn.

"Some say he ran off to the other Districts. Tired of bein' a Career. Folks say he spent ten years in each District, year after his Games." Chane stops talking, giving Hadley a minute to do the math.

Sure enough, Hadley's eyes widen, making them look like saucers of chocolate. "That means he'd be in.. in.. District Ten!"

Chane sticks her lower lip out, pondering the thought, "Oh, I guess so. You know the gossip, though. Just a silly ol' rumor."

The twelve-year-old suddenly leaps off the barrel, fright in her eyes as she shuffles towards Chane for protection. "D-D-Do you think he's still alive, Chane?"

The red-head makes a _pffft!_ sound, waving a dismissive hand in the air, "Oh, please. That boy could kill you with a sword fifty different ways. Ain't no way he'd waste his talent of choppin' people up to travel the silly Districts." She does the signal as she finishes her sentence. It's not noticeable. Something so Chane-like, so average, nobody would guess she was signaling to someone. Except for me.

The moment Chane tucks a chunk of hair behind her ear, I jump into the Barn with a loud screech, grasping the butcher's knife in my hands and swinging it about wildly through the air.

Hadley's scream combines with mine as she leaps into Chane's arms. She buries her face into Chane's chest, the screams melting to sobs as Chane and I laugh uncontrollably.

I let the knife clatter from my hands, bending over to put my hands on my knees. "Y-Y-You should' a seen your face, Hadley."

The little girl slowly pulls away from Chane with puffy eyes. "That story wasn't real?" Her voice comes out in a hoarse whisper, "The boy from District Two ain't in District Ten? And he ain't gonna come for me?"

Chane wipes the tears from her eyes, shaking her head. She marches over towards me, throwing an arm around my shoulder. "Jo and I here knew you were a total scaredy cat, and we've been needin' a good laugh lately."

Hadley opens her mouth to protest, but a different voice comes out of her mouth,

"Y'all are in _so_ much trouble."

* * *

"Lydia, 'bout this," I stare down at the palms of my hands, "It was all just a stupid prank, y'know?"

The middle-aged woman with curly brown hair frowns as she taps her short fingernails against the table, "The Hunger Games aren't anything to joke about, Joslin. Especially 'cause," Lydia lowers her voice into a hushed tone so I only I can hear, "Hadley's got no clue what the Games are, livin' in that orphanage."

A lump in my throat forms, which I quickly swallow down. It's true, of course. Hadley's mother was killed when one of the bulls ran over her. Her dad committed suicide. She hasn't got a clue about the Games, and this is the first year she'll be in the Reapings.

Chane and I have taken her under our wings. Watched over her, taught her the best tricks to pull in the District, and completely forgetting that the Hunger Games exist. Hadley thinks that it's _just_ the Careers who compete in a 'killing Game', as she puts it, Careers who _want_ to participate. Careers who volunteer to kill.

I see her now, in the corner of my eye. She's walking around Lydia's house in amazement, clutching the biscuit in her hand tightly, and dropping crumbs all over the carpets. My heart sinks as I realize that those biscuits are the first homecooked treat she's ever had.

"Yeah," I clear my throat abruptly, "Well, I promise it won't happen again. No more pranks for us."

Chane bobs her head up and down next to me, mouth full of biscuit. "Yes'm. No morfe prfankings for fus," She manages.

Lydia's eyes flicker back and forth between Chane and I. Her eyes narrow as her mouth opens, about to say something, but is cut short by Hadley running up to us.

"Ma'am! Your house is amazin'!", Hadley takes a big bite of biscuit, "And your cooking is perfect!"

Lydia's expression softens, just like everyone's does when they're around Hadley. She puts a smile on her face and reaches out to tuck a piece of blonde hair behind Hadley's ear. "Thank ya, sweetheart. Y'all are welcome here any time, 'long as those two stop prankin' everyone."

Hadley laughs, brushing her hands off on her shorts. "We'll be back, I'm sure! Thank you for the food, ma'am. I promise not to worry y'all by screamin' in the barn again."

The brunette woman grins, bending down to plant a kiss on the top of Hadley's head. When she turns towards us, her eyes lose their sparkle, replaced with a flame of annoyance, "Y'all better get going now. If I'm not mistaken, Miss Chane has manure duty."

Chane grumbles under her breath, snatching the last biscuit from the table and jamming it into her pocket, "Yeah, yeah. Everyone make fun of Chane. Just wait 'till y'all get manure duty. Then it won't be so funny."

Hadley smiles one last time at Lydia before bounding off to meet Chane at the doorway, leaving just Lydia and I in the small home.

"Good luck tomorrow, Joslin," She puts a calloused hand on my shoulder, "May the odds be ever in your favor, hm?"

I manage a small smile. The odds are certainly in my favor. I don't take tesserae. My parents have always been rather wealthy. I work on the farms by choice, to talk to Chane and Hadley. My name is only in that glass bowl sixteen times.

It's Hadley who I worry about. Although it's her first year, the orphanage requires all of the orphans to take tesserae, no matter what. That's 30 more slips in order to feed the rest of the shelter. 31 slips for a twelve-year-old who's already lost so much.

"Yeah," My voice cracks a bit at the word, "May the odds be ever in my favor." As I spin on my heel to face the door, Lydia grabs the back of my shirt and tugs me back towards her.

"Promise to take care of Hadley for me. That little girl has always been through so much. I couldn't stand it if-"

"_Joslin_! _Hurry up_ in there!"

Lydia rolls her eyes at Chane's voice, though her grip on me doesn't loosen. "I promise, Lydia." I smile reassuringly, and give her hand a gentle squeeze.

As I leave Lydia's warm and cozy home, a sickening feeling enters my stomach. One half of my brain is telling me that I've made a terrible promise: one that I can't keep.

* * *

**Sebastien Sterling, District Four Male, 17**

Everyone says that this is my year. My year to prove that I can handle this. To prove that the Sterling family is not composed of Careers who don't win.

My mom was going to enter the Games when she was my age. She backed out to let her sister volunteer. Auntie Clarissa was the only one out of three Sterlings who made it back to the District.

Naturally, my mother thinks I can bring two Victors to the family. She believes that Sebastien can pummel every tribute to a pulp, and slaughter anyone who gets in my way with any weapon.

Her words, not mine.

If it were up to me, I'd be at the seaside now, with all the jellies and fish swimming by my toes as I stand on the sandbar. If it were up to me, I wouldn't be prancing around on my tiptoes on a training mat as my sister jabs a sword at me.

"Keep your defenses _up_! When you are weaponless, you must use defense!" My father shouts, clapping his hands together loudly.

I bite my tongue, eyes narrowed. We continue tiptoeing around on the mat, and finally Thetis makes her mistake. She scoops downwards in an attempt to trip me, but I saw the move coming.

When she swings the sword at my feet, I jump up, landing a few inches to her left and kick the blade out of her hands. Thetis isn't very good at hand-to-hand combat, like me.

I gained quick reflexes by catching fish with my hands in the ocean, and that gave me an advantage with hand-to-hand work. When Thetis tries to punch at my face, I grab her fist with my palm, twisting her arm back just enough to create excruciating pain.

"Sorry about this, sis," I whisper quietly, suddenly tackling her to the ground. I sit on her with my knees on her shoulders, pinning her arms down. My feet are clenched around her legs, my arm jammed against her throat.

Wheezing for air, Thetis pats the mat three times, signaling surrender. I clamber off of her, and her hands instantly fly to her throat, still laying flat on the ground.

"Excellent work, Sebastien!" My father grins and tosses me a water bottle. "Your footing, however, was a bit off."

I take a sip of the water gratefully, not removing my lips from the top until the bottle has been halfway drained. I'm too refreshed to even care about my dad's constant need for perfection. "I'll work on it," I promise halfheartedly, finishing off the rest of the bottle.

My father nods with approval, "You should. I'll have you know, the Victor of the 28th Hunger Games, Claudia Romanoff. . ." I tune out his story. It's one that I've heard a million times. I could easily tell you the Victors of the even-numbered Games— not the odds because Mom's brother died in an odd numbered Game — as well as how they won.

While most kids in District Four were rocked to sleep with the stories of Greek heroes, I was told about the Hunger Games. Whenever I went over to Nan's, she would just tsk tsk tsk as I told her about the Games,

"Sebastien," she would say, stroking my hair, "My dear, dear, Sebastien. I have lost two children to those awful Games. Wouldn't you rather draw pictures of all the jellies we see in the ocean," She would gesture towards the big painting of a jellyfish over the doorway, done with charcoal and ink used to color our bread green, "Than go into that Arena?"

I would nod my little head, "Yes, Nan! Jellies are good to draw!", and she would ruffle my hair, and I would get to be a normal little kid for a weekend with Nan while mom and dad were busy.

"—And _that_, my son, is why it is crucial to have perfect footwork," my father sighs dreamily, snapping me back to the present. "Why don't you go help, er, _Rohan_, with his trident weilding? He needs all the, ah, _extra help_ he can get."

Even though dad phrased it as a question, I know it's a command. Everything that comes out of his mouth is. Not that I mind helping Rohan, of course, he's one of my best friends. He's just a bit hopeless when it comes to the trident. And swords. And knives. And archery. And, well, everything. The boy can barely walk on his own two feet before tripping.

"Okay, Thetis, we need to work on your hand-to-hand combat! How many times do I have to instruct you on this!?" I walk away from the combat station, Thetis' light brown hair a blur in the corner of my vision as she begins dodging the knives Dad throws at us to, "sharpen our reflexes".

"Fragum!" A voice grunts, followed by a series of crashes. I only know one person who uses types of fish in place of swears: _Rohan_.

Surely enough, a short sprint across the gym, there's Rohan, with his too-big nose and too-long legs, sitting in a pile of tridents, defeated. "Man, what happened?" I drag the tridents off of him, placing them in the holsters and onto the shelves.

"I-I don't know," He accepts my extended hand, allowing me to pull him to his two-left-feet, "One minute, I was picking a trident, the next. . ."

A few people around us are snickering, some decide to show off by snatching up their own trident as they pass by, twirling it around their fingers like it weighs nothing. "Ah, that's okay, big guy," I slap his back and lean forward to lift two tridents from a holster.

"Here," I place one of them in his open hands, curling his fingers around it. We take our places behind the steel beam, gripping our tridents and eying the targets in front of us.

"What you have to do, Rohan, is get in the proper position," I adjust my feet so my left is in front of my right, like I'm getting in position to run. Rohan does the same. "Then, you raise your throwing arm like you're about to, I don't know, cast a line or somethin'."

"Now, you throw." I let out a small grunt as I throw mine, the three points lodging themselves in the dead-center of one of the targets. Rohan hesitates for a second before throwing.

It doesn't make it to the target, instead clattering to the floor halfway between the target and beam.

He hides his face in his hands, no doubt turning pink as a salmon, "Ugh! What kinda Career am I? I can't even throw a _trident_!"

I awkwardly pat his back, "There, there. Don't worry about it. Not _everyone_ is a natural with a trident," Lie. "You're not even that bad," Lie. "I'm sure if you practice more, you'll be amazing." Another lie.

"You really think so, Seb?" Rohan's green eyes peek through the cracks between his fingers. I nod confidently, leaning on a fresh trident like a walking stick. He wipes his too-big nose with the back of his hand, standing up straighter than before.

"I'm glad you think so, because I was planning on volunteering for the Games tomorrow."

A smirk appears on my lips, followed by a faint laugh that gradually gets louder. "Uh, sure, Ro. I'm sure you are."

"You're making fun of me!"

"I'm not making fun," I say through breaths, "I-It's just, you know, you've always hated the Games."

Rohan stamps his feet, which looks ridiculous on a 6'2 boy. "Fragum, Seb, even _you_ don't think I could go to the Games."

"I didn—"

"Yes, you did!" The tips of his ears are bright red with anger, and he rips the trident from my hands. "I'll prove it to you! I can do this! I'll win the Games!"

With a sigh, I finger the brown leather cord around my neck with a tiny blue seashell on it from my other best friend, Callie. "Ro, volunteering is ridiculous. The _Games_ are ridiculous. What happened to not wanting to participate in them?"

Rohan gently places the weapon onto a shelf before speaking, "Sebastien, why don't you believe in me?"

"I do, man. Seriously. If you went, I'd be totally supportive. It's just," I pause, searching for the word, "A waste of time. You'll be in the Arena with a bunch of buff Careers and prissy twelve-year-olds. You're too good for that." Lie number four.

He rolls his eyes, crossing his arms that are so pale they stick out like sore thumbs, "You're a terrible liar, Seb. And besides, don't be such a _guppy_. You always tell me to take risks. This," — he gestures around him in a placating way— "is the biggest risk there is!"

I chew on my bottom lip, rolling the seashell around between my thumb and index finger, "When I say risks, I mean swimming with jellies, not volunteering for a pointless—"

"It's not pointless, Sebastien! _This_ is the world we live in. _This_ is what it's come to, Seb!" He points to the archery station where the younger kids are at, to the spear-throwing, and to the swordsmanship, "The _Games_ is what makes the world go round now, fragum!"

I throw my hands in the air, realizing it's pointless to argue with Rohan, "Fine. Be that way. It's official that I'm the only _sane_ Career. Even you've gone mad!"

Rohan makes a childish gesture by sticking his tongue out, pulling up his tan shorts, and marching away whilst murmuring under his breath.

_He is so dead._

* * *

**Evie Lavine, District 5 Female, 17****  
**The morning before the Reapings, I wake up to my mother screeching. I try and go back to sleep, as I've been through this before, but the screaming only gets more intense. The other day, a Peacekeeper came with a doctor from District One. Silly me thought the doctor would give her medication, but they only claimed that she was too mentally ill to go to the Reapings — especially where young children are — and left.

I manage to get out of bed sluggishly, picking up my brown leather jacket from a chair, and a pair of pants and green shirt. My family is fortunate enough to own a bath—though the water is freezing cold, unless we boil it, which can take hours— so I hop into it, pulling a bit of lemon-soap through my hair and onto my body before rinsing off.

Quickly, I slide into my clothes and walk into my mother's room. Malvin is already there, trying to coax mother into drinking a cup of tea. "How is she?" I whisper once he gives up on feeding her.

He shrugs and gestures towards our mother. Her dark hair— the same color as mine— is sprawled on the pillow like a paper fan, and she's squeezing her eyes tightly shut. Occasionally, she'll stop screeching to lean over the bed, vomiting into a pink bowl we set up next to her bed for these purposes.

"Johnathon?" Mother's arms reach towards Malvin. He squeezes her hand, rubbing his thumb back and forth. "My husband! I knew you would return. T-T-They told me you wouldn't. They said you were dead. But I knew you would come back to me, my Johnathon."

Malvin says nothing, only squeezes her hand a little bit tighter. "I'm here, mom, I'm here," He whispers quietly. Malvin's blue eyes flicker to the side, glancing at me. He gestures for me to come forward,

"Evie, would you mind heading to the market? I've left some coins in the dining area. _Just_ the essentials." His eyes never leave Mom, his hand never letting go of hers.

"'Course. I'll be back soon." I lean down and plant a kiss on mom's forehead, however she doesn't register any touch. It's as though we're not even here.

* * *

With a pocket jingling with coins, I make my way to the Market. The people behind the stands somewhat know me. Or, they know Malvin. He was coming to the market ever since he was a kid, with our father. When Dad died, Malvin visited frequently, making all of our shopping trips.

I go to the fruit vendor first, standing on my tiptoes to grab a peach from the top of the pile, where Malvin says they're the most fresh. "How much for three of these?" I ask the vendor, a man with a white cotton pad over his left eye and a scowl on his face.

"Just take 'em girl. I'm feeling sentimental today."

With a quick thank-you, I walk away with the fruits clutched protectively against my chest. When I turned 13, Malvin taught me a few rules for buying and trading at the Market.

_One: You never give away things for free, nor take them for free._

I never understood this rule. If someone offers me something for free, why shouldn't I take it? It's not like I'm scamming them into giving it to me.

_Two: __Only buy what you need, not what you want._

This rule ends up being broken by me at the sweets vendor. I remember how mother used to love chocolate, and dad would bring it home on special occasions. Mother's face would light up as we split the chocolate bar, all of us savoring the delicious flavor.

"I'll take a chocolate bar, please." I told the vendor, already prepared to hand over half of my coins.

I walked away with a small chocolate bar and only six more coins.

The chocolate would be for mother, and mother only. Maybe the taste would bring back memories. Maybe, just maybe, mother would stop claiming to see our dead father next to her. Maybe chocolate was the cure.

_Three: Meat is expensive. Try to buy vegetables instead._

I walked away from the Market with all three rules broken. The meat vendor was offering a wild turkey that was a bit misshapen— with several slashes from what appeared to be a knife— for only 3 coins.

I was proud. Technically, I only broke half of Rule Three. I used the rest of the coins to buy some vegetables, just like Malvin suggested in Rule Three. Therefore, I just walked away with both essentials _and_ wants.

On the way back home, a Peacekeeper stops me.

"Young lady, just what _exactly_ do you think you're doing?" The woman has a beauty that nobody desires. She has had some type of surgery, as her eyes are molten black, her teeth sharp as nails. Her face is beautiful yet terrifying. "Do you not see you're in a _restricted area_?"

A bolt of guilt rushes through me. I was so preoccupied with my own thoughts I didn't read the various neon signs reading, 'RESTRICTED', around the Town Square.

I try to smile, like, '_Oops! I can be such a blonde sometimes_!' and cock my head to the side, "Sorry, miss! I got so caught up in my own thoughts," I giggle bubbly, "The brain is just wonderful isn't it? One minute you realize everything around you, then you're lost in silly thoughts!"

The Peacekeeper's black eyes narrow, focused on the groceries in my hands, "How'd you afford all that?" She asks with a slight curiosity. It strikes me for the first time that Peacekeepers were once like me. They went hungry some days. They were _normal_. Then, just as they do to everything, The Capitol took them, grinded them up, and turned them into monsters.

"Money, of course!" I put on my best charming smile, one that I've used to talk my way out of things repeatedly, "See, my brother has, like, three jobs. I love him so much, ma'am, he's so hardworking."

She nods slowly, looking unconvinced. "Fine. Go on home then, girl. You don't want to get in any more trouble, do you?"

"No, ma'am I—" I stop mid sentence, looking over the Peacekeeper's shoulder. Five Peacekeepers line each side of our stage, a podium with a microphone in the center. Just behind the stand sits two stools, one of the right, one of the left, each with a glass bowl filled with slips.

A lump forms in my throat as I register what's going on. They're _practicing_ for the Reapings. Practicing the event in which they choose which two people's lives will be changed forever. Those bowls contain hundreds of names. Including mine.

The Peacekeeper snaps her fingers under my nose, "Didn't your momma ever teach you that zoning off whilst talking to an adult is disrespectful?"

_No, _I want to say, _No, she didn't. My momma has been laying in bed for half of my life, screaming and crying. My momma doesn't have the time to teach me manners.  
__  
_Instead I say, "Sorry, Miss. Just my brain again," I tap the side of my head, "It won't happen again. Promise!"

"Hmph," The Peacekeeper looks me up and down one last time, "You're dismissed."

Walking away, I reach up to wipe the sweat off my brow. That woman was the fifth Peacekeeper I've been 'bubbly', as they say in the Capitol, around to get out of trouble. There was something different about this encounter, though.

Somehow, after my encounter with the frighteningly breathtaking Peacekeeper, it finally hits me how fragile life in the District is. She could of easily killed me, just decided I broke the rules one too many times. Perhaps she could of told the Escort to call out my name, Evie Lavine, during the Reapings.

Somehow, compared to all of those things, having a mentally ill mother that sees ghosts doesn't seem so bad anymore.

* * *

**Leo Costello, District Three Male, 14**

I tuck a piece of curly black hair behind my ear, narrowing my eyes and tilting my head to see better. Mom's working on an engine, for one of the hovercars in the Capitol, and she's _finally_ letting me help out. She steps away from the table, gesturing for me to take control.

After years in this rusty mechanic shop, I know exactly what to do.

My long and bony fingers hover over the gears, automatically reaching over into the toolbox to grab a screwdriver. Once everything looks alright to me, I step away and cross my arms. By habit, I start biting the pad of my thumb, nibbling on the skin.

"Let's see if you did what your mother taught you, my little mechanic," My mother smiles down at the engine before reaching forward to press the red button to start it up, and, _here we are_, the engine roars to life. We highfive eachother instantly, grins plastered to both of our faces.

She ruffles up my hair a bit, "Go inside and have some breakfast, your friend Zander is going to eat all the bacon before you can even step in the door," I smirk at that. Zander is known for his big ambitions, and even bigger appetite, "I'll clean up around the shop."

After one last longing glance at the engine— the one I fixed, by the way, with, like, hardly any help— I run inside, swinging off my camouflage jacket and dropping it on the ground behind me.

"Oy, Piggy!" Walking up from behind Zander, I shove my fingers into his sides, which he greets by squeaking and slapping my hands away. "What'chu got there, Piggy? Ate all the bacon I see."

Zander snorts, _oink oink_, "Very funny, Leo. For your _information_, I saved a strip for you," he nods his head towards the plate next to him, "And these," He holds up the blue piece of paper in his hands to the sky, "Are blueprints."

I shove the bacon in my mouth gratefully, "Blueprints for what?", I ask between bites, "Aren't we still workin' on that automatic bubble-blower?"

He rolls his eyes and places the blueprints on the table, smoothing it out with his hands, "An automatic bubble-blower is _so_ idiotic compared to what I've got here."

My hazel eyes scan over the sheet, and I can feel them widening as I read on. "Piggy," I give him a serious look, "This is so _bubbly." _I say in my best impression of our Capitol Escort, "Like, this is so _fabulous-making_!"

Zander smiles proudly, chest welled with pride. "I thought you might say that. There are some _slight_ complications with it though,"See now, it's a _plane_. They used these in the Dark Days, y'know. So, we need Capitol machinery to build it."

The grin melts off my face, "Capitol Machinery?" I repeat, scrunching up my eyebrows, "You know we only have whatever leftover parts my Mom has."

Piggy groans, shaking his head, "Oh, no!" He begins, voice dripping with sarcasm, "Looks like we can't build this after all! That's a bummer. It's too bad," Zander nudges me, "That we don't live in District Three, right? I hear there's all sorts of mechanics there," He sighs sadly, "It's even worse that neither of us, especially myself, hasn't been saving up for twelve years and doesn't have a prototype with him now!"

"Yep. Too bad." I agree, picking up a fork to attack the eggs.

Zander instantly slaps the utensil from my fingers,"You're a damn idiot, Leo. I've been working on a prototype for years. Figured we could do the real thing together," He glances down at my eggs, "Unless, of course, you'd rather eat those eggs than invent what could quite possibly be District Three's best invention yet."

I put my hands up in surrender, "Oy, Piggy, no need to be so hurtful," My eyes flicker with amusement, "You know what they say, '_Great skills with machinery comes great hunger_'".

He snickers at that, "It's a good thing you don't have great skill with machinery, then," Zander pushes his chair out and picks up my plate just as I'm about to stick the fork into the eggs, "'Cause we have some work to do. We have no time for hunger."

Widening my eyes, I place a hand on my chest, "Why, the great Piggy isn't _hungry_? The marvelous, fantastic, and bubbly Piggy is putting inventing in front of _food_?" I look around with my eyebrows raised like I'm asking the air, '_Can you believe this guy?_' "Well, color me surprised."

"Hardy—har—har," Zander laughs dryly, placing the plates in the sink, "Well, I guess if you really don't want to, I can always work on this by mys—"

I hold my hand up, "Naw, I never said that. In fact, I'll even chip in for the parts to build the real thing."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously." I grin and reach into my pocket, tongue sticking out as I dig around and—_there it is_—pull out a single copper nut. "Here ya go," I flip the nut once, catching it in mid-air before throwing it underhand towards Zander.

He greedily reaches up to catch it. "Leo?"

"Yes sir?"

"This is only worth five nuts."

"I know. Now you're five nuts richer than you were before." I walk over to him, slinging an arm around his shoulder. "C'mon, Piggy, we gotta go buy those parts."

* * *

Just like I predicted, my five cents came in handy.

"That'll be 800 bolts and 5 nuts, please." The woman behind the counter held out her hand, waiting patiently to be handed her bolts and nuts.

After Zander pulled the bolts out from his right pocket and began to grudgingly make a move towards his left where my nut was, I began to cackle with laughter.

"See that, Piggy?" I flick the side of his head gently, "I told you my money would come in handy." I wink at the lady who's placing our bolts and nuts into a jar, "This guy said five nuts was totally worthless. But_ I_ said it wasn't. Now look where we are!"

Zander juts his elbow into my gut, a pleased smile on his face as I hunch over, "Thank you." He picks up the brown paper bags, holding them carefully like they're made of dynamite.

As we walk out the door, I link arms with him. "Piggy, this is gonna be epic," He nods in agreement, "And nothing—I mean absolutely _nothing_— is standing in our way of building this plane."

* * *

**Cassida Caine, District Two Female, 17**

Human beings are an odd species.

We cling to our lives so desperately, claiming that it's the most valuable thing in the world, and yet we take others without feeling any ounce of regret.

Humans are so easily manipulated, so gullible, and so selfish. We treasure our lives so deeply, tricking ourselves into thinking we are invincible—that our life cannot be taken away.

_How wrong we are._

Our lives—our precious treasure— can be taken away by a stab to the heart, by an arrow, by a spear, by my bare hands, and, quite simply put, _anything_. You can never tell when you will take your last breath. You don't know how you will die.

Will you die of old age? Of hunger? Hypothermia? Heatstroke?

Or, for those lucky people between the ages of twelve and eighteen, will your life be taken away in an Arena while Panem is watching?

That is why, as I throw one of my knives at the young boy sitting on the grass as he reads a book, I feel no regret. I have saved him trouble. He won't have to worry about how he will die—he was much too young to even think about death— and he is, well, _dead_.

The only emotion I feel as my knife enters the boy's chest is pleasure. It feels good to put people out of the misery known as life. They should be thanking me, that is, if they weren't dead.

A quite squeak escapes my lips as I prance over towards the boy's body, running on my tip toes through the grassy field. He's laying on the ground, eyes staring up at the sky with his book over his chest.  
The boy is breathing—faintly and barely— but still breathing.

"Hello," I whisper quietly, kneeling down to get a better look at him. The boy's glassy eyes flicker towards me. His lips are parted like he wants to say something, but I place a finger on his mouth with a faint "_Shhh_".

A single tear rolls down his cheeks as he seems to register what's happening to him. He is staring at his killer, preparing to die. "Don't cry n_ooo_w" I whine, "I haven't even gotten to the _fun part_ yet."

"This will only hurt a teensy bit, I promise," My hands grip the handle of my knife embedded in his chest. I must say, the boy should feel a bit proud. It's not often that I use this knife—my favorite, with a maroon handle encrusted with gems and a finely curved blade— to kill. I let out a soft grunt as I yank the blade from his chest.

The boy's eyes widen in shock and pain, mouth opened as he lets out a hoarse cough, blood lining his lips and splattering onto the grass. I ruffle his caramel brown hair, "Don't worry, little boy, I'm _almost_ done."

"Lucky for you tomorrow is Reaping day. I'd usually torture you right about now, but you know what? I'm feeling _sentimental_." I giggle at my own joke—as that's a phrase lots of adults tell children on Reaping day: 'I'm feeling sentimental'.

Humming and tracing my blade lightly around his face, I push my red hair behind my shoulder. "See these burns on my face? I don't like them very much." I frown, sticking my lower lip out. "I don't think it's very fair that kids like you walk around with a flawless face while I'm stuck with these burns. Do you think it's fair, boy?"

His hands are wrapped around his throat like he's trying to suffocate himself, eyes shut tight. "Hey!" I complain, "You can't choke yourself, silly! _I_ decide when we're done chatting!" Instantly, his hands fall back to his sides, eyes still squeezed tightly as tears escape from behind his lashes.

"Now, where was I?" I scratch my chin with one hand, the other still tracing circles up and down the boy with my knife, "Oh, right! I was just asking you a question! Do you think it's fair I got these burns?" He weakly shakes his head.

Smiling brightly, I bob my head up and down. "Finally! Nobody ever agrees with me! Do you mind if I get a bit closer to you?" The boy swallows a lump in his throat, but nods reluctantly.

I hover my head above his, my green eyes starting into his freshly opened ones. "Oooo, hazel eyes. I don't have very many of those. Blue eyes? Tons!" I wave my hand about in the air, "Green? Certainly. And brown? Don't even get me started on _brown_!"

Grinning, I cup his chin with my hands, squeezing gently as I lock eyes with him. "But hazel?" I whisper, "You'll be the first. Thank you _very_ much."

* * *

"Cassida, darling, I _love_ your new necklace." My mother greets me as I walk through the door, sliding off my silver jacket for me.

I stand on my tiptoes to kiss her cheek, "Thank you, mother. I made it myself, you know. Got the charm in the grassy fields over by the bakery."

She squats down so her eyes are level with my neck, getting a closer look at my new jewelery piece. "The color is marvelous! Compliments your skin tone very well."

"Doesn't it?" I tilt my head down to look at it for myself, "This color is very rare, actually."

Mother nods happily, "Oh, yes, I know. I have a few myself," she waves a hand in the air dismissively, "But I only have blue, brown, and green charms. Never have I come across a charm as lovely of a color as yours."

"Maybe I'll have to make you one."

"I'd very much like that, darling."

My hand gently touches the brown thread around my neck, trailing down it until I feel the charm. It's cold and soft, a bit squishy and fragile. Eyeballs tend to be like that, though. You have to be careful with them.

Especially one like this. This is the first hazel eye I've added to my collection. I can't afford to be so clumsy with it, can I?

* * *

**Victor Galloway, District 10 Male, 16**

"You look awful." I frown as Dot sits next to me in the grass, immediately laying down and squeezing her crystal blue eyes shut.

She rolls over in the grass, letting out a breath. "Thanks, Vic, that's a _wonderful _compliment."

I smile a bit, laying down next to her. My fingers automatically go to her hair, like they always do. For some reason, girls' hair fascinates me. Especially Dot's. It's every single shade of blonde there is, like a golden rainbow. Dot claims her hair looks like cat puke, but I strongly disagree.

"I didn't mean to offend you," I tangle my fingers towards the tips of her hair, "You just look exhausted and depressed. Did something happen at home?" My fingers run over the top of a strand.

Dot curls up like one of those rolly-polly bugs we have in our District, where her legs pressed against her chest and her arms wrapped around her knees. "I worked on the farm 'til two in the morning last night. I didn't even make enough to buy Maia a fucking bowl of _soup_."

I start to braid her hair, like my little sister, Nikita, taught me. Sticking my tongue out to concentrate, I replay my sister's steps in my mind.

_"Step One: Separate the hair into three pieces._"

"You can have the money I made today. The Mayor bought a gemstone that I found by the forest." I shove three fingers into her hair, exchanging this piece for that piece and that piece for this piece to make the sections equal.

"That's sweet, Victor," Dot murmurs, a hint of a smile in her tone, "But you have your own family to worry about. Maia and my parents are the only family I have," her voice cracks as she ventures deeper into her sentence, "and I'm 'fraid Maia doesn't have much time left."

_"Step Two: Bring the left piece into the middle, crossing over the original middle piece."  
_  
"Don't say that, Dot. Maia's gonna be just fine," A faint smile appears on my lips as I remember Dot's little sister's face; fresh and clear like a raindrop, blonde hair like Dot's, except not as many shades, and chocolate eyes. The smile quickly fades as I remember the last time I saw Maia, sick in her bed, tucked under four blankets and still shivering, coughing up blood. "You just have to stay positive."

Dot scoffs, shaking her head just slightly so I don't mess up her braid. "I can't even make enough oats and barley to buy soup— forget trying to buy medicine," She scratches the top of her head, "The Doctors didn't do horseshit yesterday, either. Just told her she's too sick to go to the Reaping 'morrow."|

_"Step Three: Bring the right piece into the middle, crossing over the new middle piece."  
__  
_I scrunch my eyebrows up, concentrating on Dot's hair and words as the sun beats down on our already tanned skin. "Did you ever ask one of the Victors to help you? I remember that one girl, Pansy, was able to clean one of their houses in the Village for some oats."

My best friend sighs, bringing her hand up to her forehead as a visor. "I'm not talkin' to any of 'em. They're all killers. They all participated in the Games, and I'm not talkin' to anyone who stepped foot in an Arena."

"They're rich killers, though," I point out, bringing a chunk of hair into the middle, "They practically bathe in barley, Dot. Just ask 'em."

_"Step Four: Repeat."_

"The only way I'd ask a Victor for help is if _you_ were a Victor, Victor," Dot snickers a bit. One of the guys at school, Dimension, used to laugh at how my name was Victor, but I was practically the opposite of one. It was a lame joke, looking back on it. "But you're not. And you're not going to be, because we're both staying right here in District Ten."

I'm approaching the bottom of her hair now, all the strands braided tightly, the blonde glittering in the sun. "What if _you_ were a Victor?"

Dot shrugs, "'Dunno. I'd be pretty stankin' rich, and I wouldn't be sitting in this field with your sorry ass."

"Hey!"

"Kidding," Dot laughs, and that makes me feel a bit better. Seeing people smile or laugh_—especially _my friends— always manages to create that 'warm, fuzzy feeling' you read about in books in my chest. "I'd be sitting in a big house in the Victor's Village with your sorry ass, and Maia completely healthy."

_"Step Five: Tie the braid"__  
_I hold the end of the braid with my left hand, reaching down to pluck a handful of grass from the ground. If the Peacekeepers were around, they would probably execute me for even touching the grass— the animals need to eat the grass, and we need the animals to sell, and selling means money— but this field is hidden. Only Dot, Maia, and I know how to get here and back to the District.

"Well, if I was a Victor— a real Victor, I mean— I promise to let you sit in my big house at the Victor's Village. And I promise to make Maia completely healthy." I tie the strands of grass around the bottom one by one, until the strands are strong enough to hold Dot's thick hair together.

Dot rolls over to face me, smirking.

"Sounds pretty good, Galloway."

"Ditto, Bulgur."

Her fingers reach behind her, running up and down the braid. "I swear you get better and better at that every day. I'm concerned for your manliness, Victor."

I pretend to look hurt, jutting out my lower lip and wiping my nose on the back of my hand, "Don't hate me because I'm better at hair than you."

Dot sticks out her tongue, "I'm not sure that's something to be proud of," she flicks my arm, which I barely feel. Years of hauling trinkets around the District, going door-to-door, can really give you some muscle. "However, I can say that your future girlfriend will be _very_ lucky to have a boyfriend who can both kiss _and_ do her hair extremely well."

"How do you know I can kiss well?" I waggle my eyebrows playfully, tilting my head forward and winking obviously and flirtatiously.

She winks back, "It's a girl thing, Galloway. I can just _tell," _Dot reaches up and ruffles my brown hair, "Now come on, Braid Boy, we'd better get back."

I stand up and offer her my hand, hauling her to her feet. We take a moment to pick the leaves and unwanted grass from our hair, brushing off our clothes.

As we walk back towards the District, chatting about how ridiculous the Peackeepers uniforms are and how I should braid all of the female Peacekeepers' hair, I can't help but think about our conversation.

_"The only way I'd ask a Victor for help is if you were a Victor, Victor."_

What if I _was_ a Victor? I could be living in the Victor's Village, with my parents and siblings living with me. Maybe even Dot and her family could live with us. I'd be rich enough to afford medicine for Maia. Wealthy enough to buy all the bowls of soup Dot could ever want.

_Everyone_ would be happy if I was a Victor.

* * *

**Althaea "Ally" Crimson, District 6 Female, 15**

I raise my right hand in the air, my left hand gripping the desk I'm sitting in.

"Yes, Ally?" Mrs. Watson, a middle-aged woman with red hair always pulled back in a loose bun, gestures at me as she shuffles the papers on her desk.

I stand up straighter at my name, "Well, Mrs. Watson, I was just wondering if we had any homework today?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the people next to me rolling their eyes, slouching forwards with aggravated expressions. Behind me, small groans and sighs can be heard.

_Why does everyone hate when I ask that?_ I wonder silently. _Don't they want to do well in school?_

Mrs. Watson smiles, moving over towards the chalkboard. She begins to erase the words written in her neat handwriting— today we learned about the Head Gamekeeper, Felix Calise — erasing and erasing until the board is completely clean.

Finally, she turns towards me and shakes her head, "I'm afraid not, Ally. As you know, the Reapings are tomorrow. I want you all to get a good night's rest."

The entire class lets out an excited cheer, however, I simply scrunch up my eyebrows. What do the Reapings have to do with anything? They shouldn't stand in the way of our path to knowledge.

"Yes, Mrs. Watson." I smile politely, just as I always do. The very first thing I learned about school: if you're polite and agree with everything, you have a much better chance at getting an 'A' on your work.

Mrs. Watson grins back, then glances up at at the wall clock. "Looks like it's time to go home."

Immediately, kids begin packing their things, shoving books and graphite-sticks into their burlap sacks. The kids with black hair and paler skin, such as myself, seem to have bags with no holes. However, all the brunettes and blondes with their brightly colored eyes hold bags that appear to have been passed down Generation to Generation, covered in holes.

I sling my own bag— a nice brown one with black straps — over my shoulder, shutting it tightly. On my way out the door, I call over my shoulder, "Bye, Mrs. Watson! See you Monday!"

"Goodbye, Ally! Good luck at the Reapings!" She calls back, barely audible over the loud cheers of children excited for the weekend to begin.

Of course none of us are worried for the Reapings.

What are the odds of our names being drawn from those bowls? Most of us don't take tesserae, including myself. Plenty of our parents have jobs at the railroads—they're always looking for new crew members. Even some of the students have jobs there.

If you ask me, we're practically a _Career _District, except for the minor detail that we aren't strong, and we aren't trained with weapons.

As I push open the double doors, I'm blasted with an icy wind. I immediately pull my grey coat closer to me, thankful my dad recommend I bring one.

"Ally!" I turn to see my friend, Sophia, rushing towards me, her pale cheeks a bright pink in the cold. Despite her wind-blown hair and shivering body, she seems to be in a good mood.

We begin to walk together, both of our eyes trained down at our feet, taking the same steps at the same time. _Left, Right, Left, Right. _"Are you still gonna help me study for that Math test after the Reaping?" Sophia asks, placing her left foot as I do.

"Mm-hmm," Like myself, Sophia has always been a bit wealthy. My father is a conductor on one of the bigger railroads of District Six, and Sophia's father works in the engine room on the same train, shoveling the coal into the fires to fuel our trains. "As long as _you_ lend _me_ that lavender dress you wore on the First Day of School."

I like to think of myself as a bit of a gambler. I believe in the saying, 'You scratch my back, I scratch yours'. Why should I do something if it's only beneficial for someone else? As long as we're both getting equal share— and it doesn't hurt, sometimes, if I get the bigger portion— there's nothing wrong with 'manipulating' once in a while.

Sophia pushes a brown curl out of her face. "Of course. Are you going to wear it to the Reaping tomorrow?"

"Yep. Have to look my best if I'm going to the Capitol."

She reaches into her bag, pulling out a plum-colored scarf and wrapping it around her neck, "Oh, please. Neither of us are going to the Capitol. It'll probably be one of the kids who actually _take_ tesserae, you know?"

I fiddle with the large buttons of my jacket, my numb fingers somehow managing to button them all. "You're right, of course, but one can never be too prepared." I wink an eye— a trait that makes me stand out like a sore-thumb in my district— playfully.

Sophia links arms with me, "Touche, Ally, touche. Hey, I gotta stop by the Market on the way home— wanna come with?"

I nod, "Sure thing. What'dya need to get?"

"Stuff for dinner tonight. You know, Reaping dinner is supposed to be the best dinner." Sophia sighs, like she's dreading the dinner anyway.

* * *

"What are you two girls doin' out here?" A voice croaks next to us.

We both spin cautiously and slowly on our heels, spinning to face our side. An old man, the one who runs the sweets shop, is standing with his back to the door of his shop, a 'CLOSED' sign hanging on the window.

I clear my throat, plastering a smile on my face. "We're just shopping. For dinner tonight, you know."

The man raises a pure white eyebrow, resting his elbow on the railing. "You ladies should be at home with yer families. Enjoy 'em while ya can. 'Morrow is Reaping, after all."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Why do all the adults take the Reaping so seriously? It's an incredibly slim chance that my name will be called. In fact, it's almost 1 to 5,000, perhaps more.

Sure, if my name is called, I'll be thrown into an Arena to fight to the death, but I fail to see why I should be panicking and locking myself in my home. If I die in the Games, I'll be with my mother again.

_If, if, if._

Genuinely, I like questions. I would go as far as to say I love them. They make the world go around. If past and present word leaders weren't curious and didn't ask questions, we wouldn't be _alive_. Humans could of gone extinct, slavery would still be around. . .

But if's. I don't like those. _If, if if. _Why does 'if' even exist? We, as humans, should only be thinking about what will absolutely, positively happen. Not what _might_ happen.

"Well, sir," I rub my nose, hoping to bring some warmth to it with my hands, "_If_ you don't mind, we truly should get shopping now. _If_ we get home late, our families will surely be upset. Perhaps we will see you at the Reaping tomorrow, _if_ you decide to come."

The chocolatier nods slowly, walking back into his shop, the door's bell jingling as he closes it behind him.

_If. If. If._

* * *

**Ronaldo Da'Vinchi, District 11 Male, 14**

There is never any days off in my District.

The minute you wake up, you must get dressed, wash the best you can, and head off to the fields. You work until the clock strikes 8:00, and that's only if you have collected at least 250 fruits, as long as you're between the ages of 12 and 18.

Otherwise, you work until midnight.

Everywhere you look, children and adults alike are hunched over bushes, crawling under them to get the trickiest of fruits. The older men are plowing fields, only taking a minute to stand and stretch their backs if the Peacekeepers are looking elsewhere.

I always felt a bit ridiculous out in the fields, myself. I'm the tallest 14 year old in the District, and I'm also the skinniest and nimble. That means, I'm the one at the top of the trees with all the 12-year-olds.

Rosie, a 12-year-old with cocoa skin and dark brown hair, tosses down a peach which I catch carefully. I toss it down to the bottom where Orchid, with her light skin and brown hair, is waiting. We handle the fruits like dynamite, which they practically are.

In District 11, our slogan is, "The products are more important than you". If there's even a bruise on the fragile skin of a peach, pear, apple, or any of the other various fruits we produce, you can be whipped or even killed.

"Heads up," Rosie murmurs silently, dropping a peach down. She's drenched in sweat—all of us are— and she seems to be taking longer than usual to toss down a fruit.

Peering upwards, I can see that after she picks one fruit, she wipes the sweat off her hands onto her jeans, plucks another peach from its branch, drops one, and places the extra into her shirt, near her chest.

I don't say a word.

Most children of Eleven have stolen at least one fruit. Sometimes it's on accident, when you're just a toddler who's hungry and surrounded by fruit trees. On other occasions, it's because you're on the verge of starvation. Either way, we have all done it.

I sit on a heavy branch, swinging my legs back and forth. If I narrow my eyes and squint as hard as I can, I can see the cherry fields, where my sisters work. To the left, my mother and father would be working out with the oranges.

No families are ever placed in the same place. The Peacekeepers saying being near your family during work hours is simply a distraction. We don't tolerate distractions in District Eleven.

"Ronnie," Orchid hisses my name quietly, her eyes flickering side to side to make sure nobody's watching, "One minute 'till our shift is over. We've got 299 peaches."

I pass the message onto Rosie on instinct. It's become a tradition. At 7:59 exactly, Orchid will whisper how many peaches we've collected, and I'll pass it onto Rosie.

I toss the last peach down to Orchid, and she places it gingerly into one of our baskets. "300 peaches", she mouths, just as a Peacekeeper in a crisp white uniform walks up.

"How many?" He asks in a monotone voice, eyes drooping with boredom.

"300, sir."

"You three are free to go."

"Thank you, sir."

"Eh."

I swing around the branch until I'm hanging by my knees, then drop. My reflexes kick in, and just as I'm about to fall to the ground, my hands dart out and grab another branch before dropping softly to the ground on my feet.

As the three of us walk towards the Town, nobody says a word until our feet are stepping on cobblestone, and not the familiar green and lush grass of the field.

We let out a collective breath, wiping a bead of sweat from our eyebrows. "Reapings tomorrow," Rosie points out.

"Yeah. It's your first one, right?"

Rosie nods.

"You'll be fine," Orchid manages a half smile as she reassures Rosie, rubbing her shoulder and wincing. "Hardly any 12-year-old gets reaped."

I nod in agreement, "She's got a point. It'll probably be one of the older kids. You got nothin' to worry 'bout."

Rosie hesitates before asking, "Ronnie, doesn't that mean you could be Reaped? You're an older kid, and you've got tesserae."

"Me?" I raise my eyebrows, "Nah. I've always been a rather lucky person. Luck is like my best friend."

"Miss Redwood says it ain't about luck. She says it's 'bout the Capitol, and the odds."

"Miss Redwood is wrong."

"No, she isn't."

"Yes sh—"

Orchid groans, rubbing her temples with her fingers, "Can you guys stop bickering?" She rolls her eyes, "I'm sure we'll _all_ be fine."

I wave at the old homeless man who lives between the bookstore and bakery in a cardboard box, smiling wearily at him, "Yeah," I agree, "We'll all be fine. What have any of us done to make the Capitol mad?"

Thinking back, I can't even remember a time where I have made anyone mad. Except for when I was 6, and it was my first year out in the fields, plucking blueberries from the bushes.

I was hungry, and I was six. It was only a handful, but it was a handful too much. One of the Peacekeepers immediately grabbed me by the forearm, dragging me towards the Town Square, where I later learned the Reapings were held.

When I was 6, I was the first child of District Eleven to receive a public whipping.

Because of a handful of berries, I made the Capitol mad.

* * *

**A/N:**

**Yay! I have to tell you that I hate Reapings. Despise them. They're so boring for me to write, and I don't think I do too good of a job making them interesting.. Hopefully you all like what I've done with your tributes so far (if they were in this chapter, that is). So, I have some questions for you all;;**

**1) Who's your favorite character so far?**

**2) Who's your least favorite?**

**Blog link:**

**demonsthe150thhungergames. weebly . com**

**I must apologize for the oddball quality/sizes of all the pictures. I tried resizing them all to be the same size, but my editing program is awful. Hopefully, it's not too distracting. Keep in mind most of it was completed at about 1-3 AM, so it won't be as perfect as I wanted it to be. Still working out the graphics and such. I'm really sorry that there's just that one random gif for Leo, the D3 Male. I have no idea what happened there :P**

**Hope you enjoyed!**


	7. Calling Out My Name

**A/N: Hey guys. Fairly fast update, don't you think? I figured that since all of the SYOTS I am entered in haven't updated in weeks. . I'll be the nice person and update my own story. Again, hopefully you all enjoy what I've done with your tributes this chapter. If you PMed me because you don't like the picture I chose for your tribute on the blog, I haven't updated them yet—however, they will be updated sometime this week. Remember to review! The more reviews, the more chance your tribute has at winning c:  
**

* * *

"It's never easy to be chosen,  
never easy to be called  
Standing on the front line  
when the bombs start to fall  
I can see the heavens,  
but I still hear the flames  
calling out my name."  
**-Who am I Living For, Katy Perry**

* * *

**Keira Elizabeth Haynes, District 4 Female, 17  
  
**The sky of District Four is the color of vomit.

Although, you'd have to eat nothing but shrimp for a few days, to get the pinks right. The clouds this morning were a bit like fish scales, rippled and being pushed around by the winds. As the clouds disappeared, gaps of blue peeked through them, the color of our ocean.

Any other day of the year, a morning like this would be perfect. I'd be slipping into my usual outfit of a t-shirt and pants, climbing out the window to meet my friends in the square. But nothing is beautiful on Reaping day. The Reaping sucked enough when I wasn't being forced to volunteer, it's only extra sucky when you realize you're about to _volunteer_— as in, voluntarily go— for some event where kids kill each other on live television.

I jerk backwards, nearly falling off my window seat, when something is thrown against the window. "_Keira_!" A voice hisses, followed by another tap at the window.

A small burst of happiness fills me as I unlock the window, slipping it upwards. "Kylie, you know we have a front door for a reason," I swing one leg over the ledge, "One day, you're gonna break my window with those shells."

Kylie sticks her tongue out, smoothing her sea foam green dress down. "With my throwing arm? Puh-_lease,"_ She sticks her arms out, shuffling closer to the side of my house, "It took me a solid hour just to get that one shell to hit your window."

Snickering, I slip my other leg over the window's ledge, leaning forward slightly. "You ready? Last time you tried to catch me, I ended up with a sprained ankle."

She does a quick squat, which looks ridiculous in heels and a dress, cracking her knuckles and neck. "I got this. I've been practicing."

Figuring that, hey, having a sprained ankle isn't the worst thing that could happen to me by the time I get in the Arena, I slip off the ledge, shoving my body towards Kylie.

Kylie lets out a squeak as she she wraps her arms around me, my entire weight crashing into her fragile figure. "What have you been _eating_ these days? Didn't your mother tell you to lay off all the crab and lobster meat?"

"Ha—ha—ha." I laugh dryly, straightening myself up and brushing off my coral-colored dress.

We start walking to the Square, our eyes glued to our feet, both of us moving as slowly as possible. District Four is a Career District, yes. However, we don't praise the Games and worship the Capitol. We do what we have to in order to stay out of trouble, and survive. If that means being a Career district— so be it.

"Everyone at school is saying that you're thinkin' of volunteering," Kylie begins, adjusting the rope-bracelet on her wrist, "Is that true?"

I exhale slowly, relaxing my shoulders. Glancing up, we're almost halfway to the Square. The kids are beginning to pile into their respective age-groups, the adults and younger ones saying their goodbyes and parting off to the side. I can see the aqua hair of our Escort, popping out vibrantly.

"Well, I don't _want_ to—"

"Then don't!" Kylie interrupts, sliding in front of me to stop me from walking. "So what if your dad wants you to? What's he gonna say, 'Oh, I hate you because you didn't volunteer for a death sentence!'?"

Biting down on my tongue I say, "It's not just my dad. It's _everyone_. Don't you get it? Everyone is expecting me to volunteer, everyone is expecting me to come back home as Victor."

Kylie clenches her fists at her sides, turning her knuckles white, "Can't you think for _yourself _for a change? You're such a Goody Two Shoes all the time, even when someone is telling you to volunteer for the freakin' Hunger Games."

"I am _not_ a Goody Two Shoes!"

"Yes you are, Keira!"

I narrow my eyes, clenching my jaw, "Doing what people tell me to do is not being a Goody Two Shoes! It's.. It's.. It's being respectful."

Kylie laughs, rolling her blue eyes and shaking her head back and forth, "Let me know where respectful gets you in the Arena, 'kay? I'm sure that if someone has a knife to your throat, and you say 'No, thank you, ma'am', they'll _definitely_ let you go."

"Fine," I purse my lips, flipping my amber-hair over my shoulder, "Just don't be surprised that when I return home—"

"_If_ you return home."

I ignore her, continuing on, "—your social ranking is down to a complete _zero_, and mine is as high as ever." For dramatic emphasis, I shove Kylie out of my way, strutting off towards the square.

"I don't think you'll be able to mess with my social ranking if you return home in a _coffin_!" Kylie shouts, shuffling towards me, making little click sounds with her heels.

I pause for a second to let her catch up with me before continuing walking, "You said if," I point out, "So, therefore, I _could_ win. And I _might_ not."

"Keira," she whines, "wouldn't you rather just stay here, in District Four, where you're actually safe? You only have _one_ more year of reapings after this. Then you're absolutely safe."

_She has a point, _I grudgingly think, _What's the worst dad could do to me if I don't volunteer? Not let me train?_

A smile spreads across my face as I say, "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay. I won't volunteer. I'll stay here—with you, and my brother, and my family, and my friends—and I _won't_ volunteer."

Kylie bursts into a giggling fit, taking my hands and swinging my arms around, "I knew you'd come to your senses! Come on, we'd better get to the Square—where you're _not_ going to volunteer."

* * *

So, Kylie's name was called. I'm not sure how it happened, because Kylie is a year younger than me, and she doesn't take any tesserae, coming from a wealthier District—but it did.

Kylie is walking up to the stage, her blonde ponytail swinging back and forth behind her. Her right arm is crossed over her stomach, so her left hand can fiddle with the bracelet on her right wrist.

That's the little detail that clears things up for me. The moment her fingers start twisting the bracelet around her wrist, I realize what's happening. My best friend was Reaped. My best friend who's only been training a few years was Reaped.

I glance behind me and see my dad. He's glaring at me with a sort of anger in his eyes, making a motion with his hands and mouthing, 'Volunteer!'.

What I do next is probably the one thing I've done that's as close to bravery I'll ever get. It's a moment where I think maybe my dad will be pleased with me, and maybe Kylie will be thankful.

"I volunteer as tribute!"

Everyone's eyes are on me. Most of the girls don't look shocked, like they already saw it coming. Some of the guys are in a state of confusion—Keira Haynes, the Queen Bee at school is volunteering?— while some just look flat out disappointed, like, _this_ is the best volunteer we could get?

"I volunteer." I repeat, making my way towards the stage with confidence. Kylie's eyes are wide, her mouth opened like she wants to say something. "Go home." I murmur as I walk past, taking the stairs of the stage two at a time.

The blue-haired escort, Marina, squeaks and shoves the microphone in my face, "What's your name, hon?"

I'm looking past the crowds of kids, past the crowds of adults, and past the pastel-colored houses, at the sea. The churning waves, all shades of blue and white and green, calm me down. I feel my body start to sway a bit, like I'm standing in the water.

"Keira," I blink a few times, returning my attention back to the stage. I smile into the camera, puffing out my chest and straightening my body, "Keira Elizabeth Haynes."

I turn towards the Thirteen-year-old sections, where my brother, Kale, is standing. His face is stern, eyebrows scrunched up. Squinting my eyes, I can see that his are bright red and puffy, tears threatening to spill over his cheeks any second.

I turn to the Sixteen section, because seeing Kale like that makes me want to drown myself in the ocean for being so selfish as to volunteer, and see Kylie. Unlike Kale, she's not trying to hide her tears. She's thrown herself on the ground, arms wrapped around her knees as she sobs violently.

Staring forwards, I can see my father standing with a grudging approval, his arms crossed. My mother is looking away, covering her face with her hands.

A boy named Samuel Newton is called, and a lanky and tall boy quickly volunteers. Just before he can step foot onto the stage, another boy with curly brown hair sprints forwards, introducing himself as Sebastien Sterling—District Four's next Victor. We shake hands before heading off towards the Justice Building, and Sebastien gives my hand a gentle squeeze, paired with a reassuring smile

I'm hoping that, since I volunteered partly because he told me to, my dad would come visit me during the goodbyes. Unfortunately, after my mother, Kale, and Kylie leave after an emotional and heartfelt goodbye, my father was nowhere to be seen.

After I volunteered—risking my life, mind you—for the Hunger Games, my father, the man who has been training me since the age of 8, doesn't have the decency to say goodbye.

I sink into the plush brown seat, and the other tribute prances forward, a charming smile on his face and a hand extended. "I'm Sebastien Sterling," he says, grasping my hand firmly, "pleased to meet you."

"Keira Haynes," I say slowly, scooting over in my chair to make room for him, "Um, so, you're going to ally with the Careers, right?"

Once in a blue moon, a Career decides that they're too good for the actual Career pack. They usually end up getting killed first. I'm not sure what to make of this boy with curly hair. He seems charming, perhaps a bit too much. Sebastien doesn't seem particularly smart, nor strong.

"Of course," he runs a hand through his hair as he sits next to me, "Yourself?"

"Yeah." My dad always said that if you're a Career, sticking with the Career pack is your best bet at survival. They'll keep you safe until it's just you, them, and a few stragglers. Then, you show off your skill by killing them all. Or, at least, that's how my uncle won.

Sebastien grins brightly, leaning back. "That makes us allies then, doesn't it, Keira?"

"I suppose it does." I concur.

Neither of us mention the fact that at least one of us will be dead in a few weeks.

* * *

**Quartz Markov, District 1 Male,**** 16**

In my District, Reaping Day is considered a celebration.

Decorations—balloons, streamers, confetti, and more—were still scattered all over the place from the night before's party. Cups of all colors were piled everywhere, the scent of alcohol lingering in the air. In the First Village, the wealthiest part of District One where I grew up, a large party was held in the Mayor's mansion. Peacekeepers, citizens, and escorts alike were all invited. Those who weren't snuck in.

I walked through the District, my best friends Alira and Glint on either side of me. My fingers were rubbing my temples, trying to subdue a pounding headache. All three of us were slightly hungover, our breaths still stained with the slight smell of champagne and wine. Alira was clinging to Glint's arm, not doing too well after the combined effects of having a low alcohol-tolerance and, well, lots of alcohol.

The pounding music coming from the Square wasn't helping any of us. Alira and I are meant to volunteer—and I don't believe any of us want to drunkingly slur our names and hobble onto the stage in front of all of Panem. The least the Mayor could do is turn the music down a notch, right?

"Hell_ooooooo_, District One!" Our Escort, Nellie, a curvy woman with blonde curls and icy blue eyes, is standing center stage, pumping her fist to the beat of the music. A few of the twelve-year-olds were reaching their hands out, and Nellie would rush by the edges of the stage, slapping all of their hands and grinning vibrantly.

Alira let out a small burp, placing a hand on her chest, "Good luck, guys," she runs a hand through her tousled brown hair, "Hope to see _you_ on stage, Quartz." She winks at both of us and limps away towards the female 16-year-old section.

To be completely honest, I don't want Alira to volunteer. She's been my best friend for years, besides Glint. I couldn't stand it if we both went into the Games. Having to witness her die, or maybe vice versa. Emphasis on maybe, because I highly doubt the rest of the tributes could kill me—but I'm only planning ahead.

Glint slaps my back, "C'mon, big guy, let's see if these muscles—" he pauses to flex his arms, "—can beat yours to the stage."

I roll my eyes, flicking his so-called muscle. "That's not muscle, Glint, that's fat," I smirk, flexing my own arm, "and your _fat_ doesn't stand a chance against me."

He winks, "We'll see about that."

We separate, making our way to the Seventeen-Year-Olds. Glint says it's best to stand in the middle, that way you can knock the others down to get to the stage faster. I say it's way better to stand at the edge—there's practically a clear path to the stage.

Once I took my spot at the left edge of the crowd, a few other guys try to shove me away, but I stood my ground. "Back off, bub," I'd mutter, nudging them with my shoulder to get them to squeeze behind me. Nobody was getting in the way of me volunteering. _Nobody_.

After Nellie finished performing a speech—stating how lucky she was to be blessed with the gift of being the Escort of District One, how all of us could be Victors one day, and how she thinks these Games will be the best ones yet— everyone was getting in their sprinting positions, eyes zoomed in on the stage.

Nellie flutters her fingers around, skipped over to a glass bowl, announces, "Let's switch it up a bit and start with the gentlemen!", and immediately dived her hand into the bowl. She pulls out a handful of slips, giggled, "Oopsie!", and selects a slip of paper from the handful, tossing the rest back in.

"District One, your male tribute is. . Ma—"

"I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE!" Hundreds of guys shouted at once, a chorus of screams and shouts. Immediately, everyone took off from their starting positions.

I take off at a sprint, ducking under kicks and punches. A boy with spiky black hair was almost to the stage when someone threw a shoe at him, precisely hitting the side of his head. The girls were cheering us on, screeching and clapping.

The red-head in front of me was down on the ground in seconds, my hands gently but firmly around his neck. I threw him to the ground, immediately tearing over his body. Glancing to my right, I saw a blonde coming at me, a pocket-knife in his hands.

Technically, weapons aren't allowed during the Reapings, but some decide to break the rules. Some meaning the weaklings. He charged at me, flicking his wrist so the blade of his knife would pop out. I side-stepped his blade, grabbing his wrist and flexing his arm back— hard. The blade fell to the ground, his other hand clenching his now broken wrist as he fell to his knees.

I begin laughing manically, the stairs now only a foot in front of me. I didn't dare look behind or next to me, I only focused on Nellie pumping her fist and cheering. With one long jump, I leap over the stairs, landing firmly on the wooden stage with a slight creak.

"I VOLUNTEER!" I shout, facing the crowd. "I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE!"

Staring back at me were dozens of injured guys—black eyes, broken bones, sprained ankles alike— envy and anger in their eyes. Everyone else erupted into applause and cheers, and Nellie shoved a microphone in my face, "What's your name, handsome?" She shouts over the loud noise.

My blue eyes locked on Glint's—who is currently laying just in front of the stage, clutching his left leg—as I snatched the microphone from Nellie. I pace the stage, grinning brightly, winking at the cameras and waving.

"I'm Quartz Markov. For now, you can consider me a tribute," I make a disgusted face, "However, in a few short weeks, you will call me Quartz: Victor of the 150th Hunger Games!" I raise my fist triumphantly, now shouting along with the crowd's cheers.

Looking towards the right, I could see my parents, both hugging each other and smiling proudly, whispering to the other parents, "That's _my_ son!"

Allia is with the rest of the girls, in a sprinting position with a smile on her face as she nods up at me.

Nellie takes the microphone back, "Thank you, Quartz! We look forward to that moment we can call you our Victor, right everyone?" The crowd applauds once more. "Now, let's find out which lucky lady gets to call Quartz Markov her District Partner."

I smirk, crossing my arms. _Let's see, _I thought silently, _Let's see which lucky lady will have the honor of being killed by Quartz Markov. They're all weaklings. All of them. Just another useless thing standing in my way to Victor—one that will soon be crushed._

This time, Nellie wasted no time plucking a slip from the glass bowl. "Your female tribute, District One, is Am—"

"I VOLUNTEER!"

Catfights were breaking out right in front of me, girls pulling each others' hair, yanking them backwards into the ground. Some were pummeling others to a pulp with their high-heels, whilst some tried using their fists to knock the other girls out.

While the others were fighting, nobody seemed to notice the brunette making her way onto the stage. She wasn't climbing the stairs, like the others who were quickly tackled to the ground. The brunette took the side, climbing over the foot of wood and calmly swaggering towards Nellie and I.

"We have a winner!" Nellie announces, wrapping an arm protectively around the girl.

"EXCUSE ME?"

The girls look up from their fights, eyes flashing with danger. Nobody expected it to be over that quickly, they were waiting for blood to be drawn.

"I'm Amythest Callero," The brunette smiles happily, flipping her hair over her shoulder, "You can call me Amy."

Nellie grins back at Amy, nodding with approval. "I don't know about you guys, but I think District One has a winner this year!"

_Yes, District One does, _I smirk pleasurably, shaking hands with Amy_._

* * *

**Faye Monroe, District 12 Female, 16**

The District seems extra dull today as the first downpour of raindrops begin to come down.

Sighing, I keep my gaze pointed at the ground, kicking up puddles with my shoes. In the murky water, I can just barely see a reflection of myself. My mother forced me into one of her old dresses, a light green one with a brown belt and collar. She told me I looked nice, though personally, I have a hard time believing that.

As my family walks by the Hob, a trading center in the Seam, the rain is coming down angrily, soaking all of us. My brown hair is now plastered to my face, my green dress turning to a darker green as it soaks up the water, chilling me to the bone.

The few blonde-haired and blue-eyed people are walking under umbrellas, rubber jackets wrapped around their fresh clothing. I bite the inside of my cheek and resist the urge to slap all of them, knocking their precious umbrellas to the ground.

"Gotta go," Zane, my brother, says once we arrive at the Square. "Good luck to both of you." He hugs me closely, and pats my other brother, Hadrian, on the shoulder, before rushing off with a relieved look on his face to join the rest of his friends on the sidelines.

Zane's 19, meaning he doesn't qualify for the Reapings anymore. Hadrian's still 18, and therefore, he's stuck with the rest of us pathetic people.

I think both of us feel a little bit of jealousy, watching Zane make a mad-dash past the Peacekeepers who are taking blood samples from the rest of us.

Hadrian murmurs, "Lucky little bastard," and nudges me with his elbow to get me to move forward towards the table of Peacekeepers. I stick out my finger, absentmindedly focusing on the tarp-covered stage as the Peacekeeper jams a needle into my finger, shoving my finger onto a scanner to detect my identity

"Monroe, Faye?"

I nod, and he checks my name off on a piece of paper. Hadrian is again next to me in a few moments, wiping his finger off on his pants and dragging me off towards the Sixteen section.

After a quick goodbye, I'm left in a swarm of Market girls who are quietly whispering about who they think will be Reaped. Obviously, it will be someone with gray eyes and brown hair—one would be ridiculous to think otherwise.

One of the girls is rubbing some sort of black stick on her eyes, drawing an outline around them. "This is _the_ best charcoal I've come across, Claudia. It's even waterproof—" She pauses and tilts her head back, letting a few raindrops splatter onto her face, "—see?"

The girls ooo-and-aww, grabbing towards the charcoal stick. She only giggles and holds the charcoal out of reach. "This was a gift. I can't just let you guys use it!" Her blue eyes flicker to the side, glancing at me. A smile spreads on her pale face.

"Excuse me?" I spin on my heel to face the group of girls. The one with the charcoal holds it out towards me, grinning brightly, "Would you like to try some of this? It's waterproof you know!"

"No thanks."

The girl frowns, scrunching up her eyebrows, "Why not?"

"I'm around coal all day. This is the _coal_ district. I don't want it around my _eyes_."

"It'll make you so much prettier, I promise!"

"I'm not interested."

"Please!"

"No—thank—you."

"_Faye Monroe_!"

At this point, I'm prepared to deck the girl, until I realize it wasn't her who said my name. The rest of the Market girls are staring straight ahead, mouths closed. The girl I was talking to has her eyes widened, slowly turning on her heel to face forwards.

_Please don't be the Escort. Please don't be the Escort. Dear god, please tell me it wasn't the Escort who just said my name. _Someone nudges me from behind, shoving me forward.

"Faye Monroe! Is Miss Faye Monroe with us today?" Looking up, I can see the Capitol Escort, Jally, chirping my name into the microphone happily, like she's announcing I've just won a prize.

Clenching my fists, I step forwards. The crowd immediately parts for me, allowing me to shuffle through the pathway. I walk up onto the stage, slowly and shakily, taking my place next to the Escort.

"Hello, Faye!" She smiles happily, skipping over towards the other glass bowl.

"Hi." I whisper quietly as Jally shuffles back towards me, her fingers clasping a white slip closely.

Jally unfolds the slip, smoothing it out between her thumb and forefinger. Without missing a beat, she reads, "Tiresias Losoffy! Come on up, dear!"

There's a few gasps in the crowd, a lot of rebellious murmurs. A pause overtakes the District before an incredibly deep voice announces, "Pardon. Yeah, that's me. Tiresias. Excuse me. Uh-huh, District Twelve male." It's a solid five minutes before a tall and lanky looking boy appears from the crowd, arms and legs covered in freckles. His hair is long and silky-looking, tied back in a ponytail that would put some girls to shame.

Someone hands him a black stick, a cane, and he grasps it thankfully, muttering a thanks to the boy who handed him the cane, now disappearing back in the crowd. Tiresias begins tapping the ground around him with the tip of the cane, taking small and slow steps towards the stage. Jally occasionally says something like, "You're doing good," or, "Take your time dear".

Realization hits not only me, but the rest of District Twelve:

The male tribute from District Twelve of the 150th Hunger Games is _blind_.

A Peacekeeper helps Tiresias up the stairs, using his voice to guide him up. Once he's shuffled his way to the other side of Jally, our Escort clears her throat, plastering a smile on her face.

"Well, ladies and gentlemen, these two look like fighters! I'd certainly bet on them!"

A jolt of lightning is her only response. Not a great omen, if you ask me. My District partner looks oddly calm, almost pleased—slightly. . happy.

_The Quarter Quell, _I realize, _Tributes get an alternation. If this kid is really blind. . They could give him eyesight again—and even better than before.  
__  
_"District Twelve, I present to you," Jally takes my left hand and Tiresias' right, thrusting our arms in the air, "_Your tributes for the 150th Hunger Games_!" Once she releases us and tells us to shake hands, there's an awkward minute of Tiresias trying to find my hand, and me trying to guide his hand towards mine, which results in me putting one hand on his arm to keep him still, and grabbing his hand with my other, shaking firmly.

Jally laughs nervously, "Happy Hunger Games, District Twelve! You'll be seeing these two marvelous tributes on chariots in just a few days!"

As she leads us off the stage towards the Justice Building for goodbyes, I assess my situation:_ I'm a sixteen-year-old girl from the Seam, and I've been reaped for the Hunger Games. My District Partner is blind. I have to kill him, right after he regains his eyesight, if I want to win._

* * *

**Timber Cherrywood, District Seven Male, 17**

Cherry is sobbing and making a scene. By now, I should have known better. Every year she cries, while Blossom shakes her head and rolls her eyes.

"I'm _sorry_, Timber," she sniffles, wiping her nose on the back of her hand, "I-I just. . I hate Reaping Day." The word brings on a new wave of fresh tears, pouring down her face and onto her cream-colored dress.

I awkwardly pat her shoulder, kneeling down to her height. "We'll all be fine, Cherry, I promise," I reach up and tuck a slightly soggy piece of blonde hair behind her ear, then swipe my thumbs underneath her eyes to wipe some of her tears away. "Have I ever broken a promise?"

Cherry hesitates for a minute before shaking her head, "No," She says weakly.

"I double-pinky-swear that nothing bad is going to happen," I hold out both of my pinkies, wiggling them and inviting her to put her own fingers out.

My sister looks unconvinced, her expression wary. I poke her belly, tickling her like I did when she was just a baby. Cherry starts giggling, face turning red with embarrassment and laughter. "Double pinky swear?" She asks, slowly unfolding her fists.

"Double pinky swear." I confirm, sticking my pinkies out once again. Cherry sticks her own out, and we instantly hook all four of our pinkies, shaking to seal the promise.

Everyone around the three of us is glancing towards us, then to the Mayor, then back to us. The Mayor's annual speech about the Dark Days is blasting through the speakers, occasionally interrupted by static. His voice bounces and echoes against the trees, ringing in our ears.

"—so, um, to wrap up that lovely speech, I want to wish all of you good luck. I hope you, er, enjoy, this very special day." The Mayor's eyes are glued to his podium that, like everything else in Seven, is made of wood. His eyes are going to side, obviously reading a script.

He clears his throat uncomfortably, side stepping away from the podium. I frown a bit. The Mayors are usually sent from other Districts—typically the Careers—as they tend to be more supportive and energetic on Reaping Day. Last year, when our Mayor faltered slightly during this speech, he never returned.

As the Mayor settles into a wooden chair, another woman sent from the Capitol itself bounces onto stage. There's a few brave souls who manage to clap, some men perform the classic wolf whistle. It's clear this Escort is looking for attention, with her short green dress that barely covers her, erm, private area, and an incredibly low neckline. Her hair is the color of Cherry and Blossom's, a powdery blonde color, though hers is most likely dyed, judging from her dark eyebrows.

The escort holds up her hands in a, 'thank you, thank you', sort of way. "Greetings, District Seven!" A slight breeze flies through the air, ruffling both her dress and and hair. I quickly place a hand over Cherry and Blossom's eyes, giving the escort a moment to pull down her dress. "Oopsie!" She giggles, though she doesn't sound very sympathetic.

We all seem to shift awkwardly at the same, moving our weight to the other foot as the Escort gives up on talking to us, now prancing over towards a glass bowl. She dips a slender hand into the pile of slips, making a scissor-formation with her fingers and picking one up.

"Ladies first, as always," she explains, unfolding the paper. The Escort squints her green eyes, holding the slip up to them.

"Mahz—Malz—Matz— Oh, can someone come over here and read this to me? I'm afraid my eyesight isn't as good as it used to be." The Escort giggles nervously, twirling a piece of brown hair around a manicured finger. A Peacekeeper steps forward slowly, leaning over her shoulder. The Peacekeeper's helmet tilts to the side, pressed against the Escort's ear.

"Oh!" The Escort perks up, nodding. "Thank you very much!" The Peacekeeper bows, walking backwards to join the rest of them, all dressed in clean, crisp, white uniforms that somehow don't have any dirt, soil, or leaves stuck to them.

She blinks a few times before announcing, "Marzia Blackwoods!"

A somehow even tenser silence rushes through the District. The Fifteen-Year-Olds part, making a thin pathway for said tribute. A girl with red hair and subtle hints of brown steps through, picking a few pine-needles off her pastel-blue dress. Somehow, Marzia's steps are strong and steady as she strides past all the sections, walking calmly onto the stage.

"Hello, darling," The Escort purrs, suddenly shoving the microphone in Marzia's face, "Have any words you'd like to say before I pick your District Partner?"

Marzia raises an eyebrow, though seems unfazed. "Not particularly," She says slowly, choosing her words carefully, "I suppose I'd like to say I'm very proud to represent District Seven in these Games."

As soon as the last syllable comes out of Marzia's mouth, the Escort jerks the microphone away, causing an ear-shattering ring to go through the speakers. "Oopsies!" She says once more, red rosebushes of blush blossoming on her cheeks. "Very well said, however, Marzia."

Marzia nods firmly, mouthing what I assume was— 'thank you'.

"Now, for our gentleman."

She makes her way towards a bowl filled to the brim with crisp slips, pulling one out from the top, rolling it between her fingers, frowning, and throwing it over her shoulder. The Escort digs down deeper, stirring the slips around with her hand before selecting a slip.

"Okay, everyone! The District Seven male tribute, Mal—"

"—Marzia." The girl corrects.

"Marzia's District Partner is," The Escort unfolds the slip of paper, "Timber Cherrywood!"

Immediately, Cherry starts screeching. She catapults herself onto me, screaming, "No! He can't go! He _promised_ me! No!"

I'm about to simply pick her up and place her on the ground when a familiar warmth spreads through me. Glancing over my shoulder, I can see my girlfriend, Sakura, gently picking Cherry up, carrying my screeching sister away. Sakura only nods towards the stage sadly, her eyes watering.

"Come on, now, Timber! You can't delay this very important event!" The Escort's voice rings through my ears. I force a lump in my throat down, drinking in the image of Sakura holding Cherry, and Blossom hugging Sakura from behind.

I remember how Marzia appeared so confident, so sure of herself and prideful walking towards the stage. All I had was a screaming sister. I take shaky steps towards the stage, my eyes surely wide with fear. Halfway through the crowd, a little girl whispers,

"Don't be scared. Just walk. It'll all be over soon."

Though I'm not sure if she means my life will be over, or if the Reaping will be over, I take her advice. I focus on my steps, trying to straighten out my legs. _Left, Right, Left, Right._

Once on stage, the Escort instructs us to shake hands. Marzia takes my hand in hers, shaking it firmly. Her hand lingers for a minute, her chocolate brown eyes narrowing, looking me up and down. I pull my hand away, suddenly feeling very insecure by the sudden investigation.

"Say hello to your tributes, District Seven—Mamzia BlackDoor, and Timber Cherrywood!"

Marzia doesn't have enough time to correct her own name, for the Escort is already shoving us off, pushing us towards the Justice Building.

I think of glancing back, maybe smiling at the girl who gave me the walking advice, or at my sister, but everyone is already walking away. They already know I'm going to die.

* * *

**Anise O'Toulac, District Eleven Female, 17**

"I cannot believe it's already time for the Reapings!" Our Escort, Channa, sighs dreamily into the microphone. Her hands are slowly sliding up and down the microphone, tongue moistening her lips.

Channa has been our escort for two years now, and she's definitely the most _interesting_ we've ever had. Every year she comes clad in a bra and underwear, a very thin piece of fabric covering her entire body. She likes to 'switch things up' by changing the color of her clothes every year. This year, it's a soft pink color.

The boys seem to enjoy her, their cheeks always red, lips always moistened repeatedly by their tongues. However, there's nothing but awkwardness in the female sections.

"I've been looking forward to doing this for an entire year!" Channa squeals, flipping her dark brown hair behind her shoulder. "How about you guys?"

_This woman is getting paid to announce what two kids will be sent to their death. _I think, biting the pad of my thumb, _She's as awful as the President herself. This woman is not, in any way, an actual human being. She's a monster._

Channa blinks a few times, waiting for someone to answer. One of the Victors shouts out something among the lines of "Get on with it! This is bullshit enough!" Although, the microphones aren't quite close enough to his mouth to catch his words.

Our Escort puts her hands on her hips, spinning around to face the Victor, giving us a view of her backside. _She's disgusting, _I feel a metallic and salty taste filling my mouth. Glancing down, I've bit into my thumb too hard to the point I've drawn blood. Scrunching up my face, I press my thumb into my side, applying pressure to it. _Almost as disgusting as that. .  
_  
There's a quick exchange between the Victor and Channa, no more than twenty seconds, before Channa turns around again. She smooths the thin-fabric down, regaining her composure and plastering a smile on her face. "Okay!" She breathes, "Let's find out who your lucky lady is!"

Channa's fabric trails against the floor as she makes her way towards the glass bowl, leaving a faint trail of sparkles. She snatches the very top slip, practically skipping back to the microphone. "Anise O'Toulac!"

_Poor Anise, _I frown slightly, picturing what the chosen girl must be feeling. Terrified, probably. District Eleven almost never wins—in fact, there's only 2 Victors sitting on stage—that girl is probably destined to die. Death is one of my biggest fears, personally. The idea of eternal sleep, never seeing, hearing, talking.. I shivered, hugging my arms awkwardly.

"Anise O'Toulac! Hon, are you out there?" Channa snaps out with a twig of annoyance.

_Anise O'Toulac? Wait a minute. . isn't that— _"—You. Get up there." I glance to my left, where my sister Cherbil is standing nervously. Her eyes are glued straight ahead, though her mouth is twitching as she murmurs to me, "That's you, Anise. You've been Reaped."

I stumble backwards a bit. Me? It can't be me. I've done nothing but kiss up to the Capitol and Peacekeeper. I have no reason.. I-I-I've done nothing wrong. _Ever_.

I'm about to fall flat on my back when the girl behind me catches me, scooping her arms underneath mine. "Go." She hisses, placing me back on my feet.

With slow steps and wide eyes, I begin to make my way up to the stage. I glance at everyone, begging them to volunteer. Maybe there's another Anise O'Toulac. Another Anise who actually _wants_ to die. By the time I get to the stage, I'm almost in tears. I'm going to die. I'm going to be all-dolled up for a week or two, and then I'm going to die.

"Any volunteers?" Channa asks, beaming and placing an arm around my shoulders. "No? Okie-Dokie! Let's find out who our male tribute is!"

My knees are like jelly as I look out to the crowd. I lock eyes with Cherbil, practically begging her to come up here and volunteer. Begging her to go to the Hunger Games, so I can be safe. I don't deserve any of this. I've never done anything wrong. I want to go home. I want to go back to the fields, pick some peaches, and stay there forever. I don't want my body to be in a wooden box forever.

I'm still frozen in fear when Channa announces, "Ronaldo Da' Vinchi!"

A boy who I've seen before out on the fields walks up to the stage, seeming oddly nonchalant and calm about being reaped. We shake hands, and he grips my wrist with his over hand, as I'm probably a shaky and sweaty mess.

"I think these are some class-act tributes, guys! They're _definitely_ gonna be survivors!"

_No, we wont.  
_

* * *

**Miles Young, District Nine Male, 13  
  
**Why me?

Why is it always Miles Young who gets the short end of the stick? My sister Porsche is the opposite of me—all the luck in the world. She'll find money in the grass, she wins all the contests at school, and _she_ wasn't reaped.

I don't even try to fight the tears that stream down my face as I walk up to the stage. I bite down on my bottom lip, stare at my feet, and cry. Why not? It's not like I _wasn't_ going to cry. Why should I try to hide my tears?

Our Escort, a woman with light pink hair and cocoa-brown skin, looks genuinely upset when she sees me slugging up the stairs. She wraps an arm around my shoulder as she calls out, "Any volunteers?" The way she says it is almost like a plea. Like '_please, please volunteer for this boy. Maybe if one of you volunteers and you win—I'll get moved up to a better district_'.

My District Partner volunteered. _Volunteered_. I've seen Callia around before, a few times. Nobody ever really talks to her—some people have said that she's mean, though, I'm not really sure how they can just judge her so quickly.

As we shake hands, Callia shakes very delicately and slow. She looks down on me, a slightly concerned and displeasured expression on her face. A sudden fear fills me when I realize that even Callia wouldn't hesitate to kill me if it meant getting home.

Luckily, I'll probably die of before I'm really an issue in Callia's path of getting home.

The Careers are probably snickering at me right now, as they watch these Reapings. Laughing at the 13-year-old of District Nine who can't even carry his own weight, who stands like an ant next to his District Partner who's at least 2 full heads taller than him.

They'll probably forget about me, too. Who would remember some weakling of District Nine? I'll probably slip and lose my footing during the Bloodbath, blowing myself to bits by falling off the plate.

_Think positive, Miles! Porsche wants you to try. That's the least you can do—try.  
__  
_I reluctantly start thinking of a list of all the things I can do. I can run decently. I'm small, so I can climb trees better than most Careers. Maybe there will be plants in the Arena: I know some edible grains and plants. I'll also blend in. The tributes won't even worry about me.

_How is that even going to help you in the Arena, Miles? When a Career is hunting you down with pointy spears and pointy arrows, you being able to say, "Hey, look! I can eat that flower!" isn't going to help you!  
__  
_Callia might be able to do all that and more. Most District Nine kids can identify edible plants—she's not any different. She looks a lot stronger than me. Maybe she's been trained. She probably has, given that she volunteered.

Even if she hasn't, I have a feeling she'd pick up on some ways to kill a fellow tribute pretty easily during training. I'll be lucky if I can even lift a knife.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I'd like to present to you: Your District Nine Tributes!"

Callia and I walk off the stage to very faint and subtle applause. She walks in front of me, very confident and sure of herself.

As I settle into the leather chair of the Justice Building, I do a quick analogy. The day I manage to get out of the Arena alive will be like the day everyone in Panem starts to love the Games.

Which will never happen.

* * *

**Kaia "K" Kaskerie, District Eight Female, 17****  
**Oh, District Eight.

To my right, I can see a group of factories, puffing out a reasonable amount of smoke into the air. To my left, I can see—_well, what do you know?_— more factories! What's that I see over there? Could it be—_it can't_—more factories? It is!

My friend Evangeline says that District Eight is the most useless District—and I'm inclined to agree. Like, seafood from District Four? That's cool. Mining in District Twelve? Okay. But _textiles_? Honestly, who needs them? The Capitol makes almost 50% of all of them anyway.

Evangeline also says that there'd probably just be eleven districts—but apparently, the president at the time didn't like odd numbers. Something tells me _textiles_ wasn't one of those original eleven.

Then again, Evangeline _also_ insists that she's not pregnant with my brother's child, however, seeing as my brother is the only boy she has practically ever touched, I have a feeling Evangeline can be a bit of a liar.

I'm currently sitting with my brother's girlfriend now, both of us leaning back in the chairs our District so kindly provided for the pregnant teenager and her friend. At first look, Evangeline doesn't really _look_ pregnant. The doctors say she won't develop what they call a 'bump' for a few more weeks.

However, you'd be surprised what people do when they have to put up with a teenager with both pregnancy, and teenage hormones. A chair was the least they could provide.

"Look at all of them. They look like complete dorks."

"Did we look like that?"

"Probably, but we don't now—so it's fine to make fun of them."

I nodded, remembering my first Reaping at the age of Twelve. Looking back, I felt oddly protected, in some ways. There's really rarely and twelve-year-olds in the Games, in fact, I think there's only been about ten. Plus, at the age of twelve, my mother didn't let me take tesserae.

Although, there was still that what if question in the back of my mind. I had as good a chance as anyone to be Reaped—just like I do now. The entire day, I was breaking out in nervous sweats. Even after the Reaping was over, I'd start sweating madly, like the Capitol would come scoop me up, announcing, "_Oops, we meant to say your name! Come along, it's time for the Games_!"

They didn't, luckily.

"Are you nervous?" Evangeline asks me, reaching over to pluck a piece of lint off my dress.

I raise an eyebrow, "I suppose. What with the tesserae and all, my names in there twenty three times," I stare at the stage, my eyes focused on the glass bowls. My stomach feels tight as I realize that twenty three of those slips have my name on them. Twenty three opportunities for the Escort to call my name out and take me away. "You?"

Evangeline shrugs, "Not quite," She pauses to cross her ankles, sitting up straight, "Honestly, I don't think there's ever been a pregnant tribute in the Games. The Capitol can't be _that_ cruel. I mean, like, what if I go into labor or something in the Arena?"

I laugh, "True. But you shouldn't underestimate them. They're _eeeee—vil_." I wiggle my fingers around my face, making a sour expression.

"Hi, guys!"

Looking up, I can see that the Escort has just taken stage, the Mayor's speech done and over with. This year, it's a man with curly red/brown hair and amber eyes. He's smiling with no teeth, corners of his mouth raised in a suggestive smirk.

He's fairly normal, compared to the lady we had last year with a forked tongue.

"I'm Fuse, your Escort this year. I'm sure you're all as excited as I am!" Fuse pauses, waiting for the applause that never comes.

Fortunately, a machine-generated applause plays over the speaks, and Fuse smiles gratefully. "You're too kind, truly," He walks over to the glass bowls, picking them up and carrying them over towards his podium.

"How about we find out who your female tribute is this year first, okay?" Fuse doesn't pause this time, as he's most likely learned that District Eight isn't a District to give applause, "Your female tribute for the 150th Hunger Games is... _Evangeline Faraday_! Come on up here, girl!"

Evangeline stands up immediately, walking calmly towards the stage. I'm staring at the backside of her, my mind not processing what's happening yet. Then it hits me, just as Fuse is about to dip his hand into the boy's bowl.

"Wait!" I shout, standing up and pushing my chair back with a loud screeching sound as it scrapes against the concrete. "Wait! Evangeline!" I'm running towards the stage now, and instantly the Peacekeepers block my path.

"No! Stop! Let me go! That girl is _pregnant_! She can't go to the fucking _Hunger Games_!" I push a few Peacekeepers out of my way, allowing me to stand straight with nobody crowding around me.

"I volunteer," I breathe slowly, closing my eyes, "I volunteer as tribute."

Evangeline seems to take notice of me now that I've volunteered, "No!" She immediately hisses, "I _want_ to go. I _want_ to participate in the Games, truly." She looks at the Peacekeepers with an expression that's so full of desperation, even I'm compelled to believe her.

"I volunteer. You _can't_ deny a volunteer!" I shout, now marching up the stairs and standing in front of Evangeline.

"I, Kaia Kaskerie, volunteer as tribute."

Fuse looks back and forth between the two of us, his lips pursed. He glances towards the Mayor for help, however, the Mayor just sits with his hands in his lap, staring down at them with an expression of sorrow. "Well," Fuse begins slowly, "I suppose. . I suppose we really can't deny a volunteer."

At those words, Evangeline is escorted back to her seat, her head hung and shoulders slumped forward. As Evangeline sits down and smooths down her dress, Fuse clears his throat,

"Well, wasn't that interesting?" He walks towards me, placing his hands on my shoulders. "This one looks like a definite winner, guys!"

The praise doesn't help me calm down. If anything, it only releases more butterflies in my stomach. "Now for our gentleman," Fuse releases me, sauntering back towards the podium,

"Marcus Wolden!"

Instantly, a boy with shaggy brown hair and dark brown eyes lunges forward, a snarl on his face as he dares anyone to volunteer. Of course, nobody does.

The boy takes long and quick strides towards the stage, a pleasured smile on his face as he stands next to me. "Wow, it looks like we're giving the Careers a run for their money this year, huh, everyone?"

The applause track plays over the speakers once more.

"Well, shake hands, you two." Fuse instructs. I hold out my hand instantly, however Marcus only glances down at my extended hand and rolls his eyes. "Or not. That part is _completely_ optional!"

After being introduced once more as 'the best tributes District Eight has seen', we're taken off the stage, escorted into the Justice Building.

As Marcus and I take our seats in the two chairs, I can't help but notice how Marcus is staring at me. Not with fear, sadness, or boredom:

_Hunger_.

* * *

**Alexander 'Alex' Conlon, District Two Male, 17**

The Treaty of Treason is complete and utter bullshit.

In District Two, we hear a lot—and I mean _a lot_—of speeches. Typically, they all have some sort of point to them. They make us laugh, they make us cry, and they make us interested. However, the Treaty of Treason is a completely different story. It's a miracle that I haven't fallen asleep yet.

"Hey," my friend Marble pokes me in the back of the neck, "My dad told me I should volunteer this year. I think I'm gonna do it this time."

I raise an eyebrow, still staring straight ahead, hoping that the Peacekeepers don't notice us chatting, "That's funny, Marble."

"I'm serious, man," Marble hisses, breathing all over my neck which feels absolutely disgusting, "I think I have a good chance this year! I could _totally_ win it."

Marble's a funny guy, isn't he?

"I suppose we'll see then, won't we?" The corner of my mouth twitches upwards in a suggestive smile, though I try to keep my face clear of emotions.

This is _my_ year. Lorcai, a past Victor, says so. He says that after all my years of training, it's _my_ turn to volunteer, and it's _my_ time to win. Some bogus kid who has crazy dreams of winning isn't going to stop me.

The escort, a woman named Rylee dressed in a long pastel-orange dress, takes her time going over towards the bowl that contains the girls' names. She plucks one randomly, carrying it like it's dynamite over towards the microphone,

"Ley—"

"I volunteer."

Everyone turns to look towards the seventeen year olds where a girl is calmly standing up from her seat, her red hair flowing behind her like a cape, her green eyes piercing and looking around, daring anyone to volunteer. There are two burn marks on her face, going across her eye towards her right ear, and another on her left cheek.

"Come on up, love!" Rylee chirps into the microphone, motioning for this volunteer to come forward.

Nobody makes a noise as the redhead moves swiftly and calmly through the crowd, an expression that's somewhere between a scowl and a smirk on her face. Nobody questions her authority, it's as though she was born to stand on that stage, born to participate in the Games.

How _cute_.

Behind her, next to the Mayor, I see Lorcai with the other long line of Victors. He's winking at me, running a hand through his tousled blonde hair. Lorcai nods his head towards the volunteer and makes a line over his throat with his finger. He doesn't think she's any competition.

"Your name dear?" Rylee offers the redhead girl a microphone, but she pushes it away. She stands firmly, her hands clenched into fists at her sides,

"My name is Cassida Caine." We're all leaning forward, waiting for her to say more, but she purses her lips together and just slightly shakes her head, implying she's done.

"On to the boys, then!" Our Escort thrills, galloping over towards the other bowl overfilling with slips. She hums a song that sounds an awful lot like Panem's Anthem while mixing up the slips and plucking one from the middle.

Rylee unfolds the slip as she walks, smoothing out the paper with her pointer finger, "Gran—"

I stand up quickly, sticking a charming smile on my face, "I volunteer as tribute." Without waiting for Rylee to say anything, I begin walking to the stage.

"I volunteer!" I instantly whip my head back—_no, he couldn't have_— and see Marble, standing up from his seat.

_That rotten bastard. _We both take off running towards the stage, the crowd hooting and hollering, occasionally sticking their legs out to make us stumble. Marble somehow manages to get in front of me after I fall backwards, courtesy of a twelve-year-old.

"No!" I hiss, lunging forward. I grab a handful of his shaggy brown hair, yanking back as hard as I can. Marble lets out a screech of pain, and I push him behind me, now taking the stairs by two.

Rylee is clapping to the beat of the music that's began to play, bobbing her head up and down as I climb up the stairs. "Lovely job, young man! May I ask for your name?"

I take a moment to fix my hair, jerking my head to the side in order to get it to flip in just the right way. I put on the charming smile again, the one Lorcai taught me to do. "I'm Alexander Conlon, although you can call me Alex—future Victor, at your service."

The crowd bursts into applause as Rylee thrusts Cassida and I's hands in the air—Cassida looking a lot less than thrilled at the contact—chanting, "District Two! District Two! District Two!"

_Yeah, _I wave, smirk, and wink one last time at the cameras before exiting the stage, _District Two certainly has a Victor this year. And, my Capitol Audience, here's a quick hint:: it won't be Cassida Caine._

* * *

**A/N: Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! I'm so thrilled we're almost done with the Reapings—I can't wait to get to the good stuff :D Here are some more questions for you to answer**

**1) Has your favorite tribute(s) changed since reading this chapter?**

**2) Has your least favorite changed?**  
**3) I'm thinking of doing a sponsor system.. would you guys like that idea, or would you rather I just choose to send the parachutes when I feel it's necessary_?_**

**I'm really happy to announce that all spots have now been filled! I think you guys are going to love all these tributes, hopefully as much as I do. It's going to be insanely hard to kill all but one off D: I'm currently working with my friend on developing all of your amazing tributes, and sorting out the details of the arena. Stay tuned, and don't forget to check out my blog for more announcements :3  
**


	8. Wicked Games are up in Flames

**A/N: I'm going to try to squeeze in all my news quickly. A) The blog has been deleted. I'm being accused of stealing another blog, basically, so I've decided to just start a new one to drop the whole 'plagiarism'. thing. B) The Arena has been officially finished. I thought it was finished a few chapters back, but as it turns out, my old idea stunk. It's mentioned in this chapter, too, if anyone cares. The New Arena is much better (: The last and final Reaping Chapter will be finished sometime this week, probably over the weekend. Sorry to disappoint anyone who thought their character would finally get their spotlight D:**

* * *

Pretty soon, I'll be getting on my first plane  
I'll see the veins of my city like they do in space  
But my head's filling up fast with the wicked games; up in flames  
How can they fuck with the fun again, when I'm known?  
**—Tennis Court, Lorde**

* * *

**Felix Calise, Head Gamemaker:**

I sit in the pure white room, silently whispering things that are caught by the microphone attached to my jaw, carried to the other Gamemakers.

"Go ahead and place a mutt here," I reach my hand out, lightly poking the hologram in front of me, a ripple of light outlining where my finger touches. "And one of those rivers right next to it, here," I drag my finger across the screen.

Immediately, the places where my finger was ripples slightly before turning into another image— a crystal blue river that snakes through a pile of rocks for only a few feet. My eyes quickly scan over the entire hologram, trying to imagine myself as a tribute in these Games.

It's one of my dreams—or night mares—, being a tribute. Being from one of those disgusting Districts, the only chance I have at leaving is being Reaped, thrown into an Arena and forced to fight to the death.

It's _much_ nicer being on the other side, designing the Arena, if you ask me.

"Eh, Felix?" The man on the left side of me, Copperwood Dare, pushes his chair back, leaning back and calling to me, "Peppi wants to know what supplies she's s'posed to put in the Cornucopia."

I press my fingers to my temples, resisting the urge to groan. It's the same thing every year: water, food, weapons, matches, flashlights, and medicine, "Just the basic supplies. Tell her to go heavy with the backpacks— at least one for every tribute," I hesitate for a moment before continuing, "Off to the side, _don't_ forget the carts. There should be twelve exactly. Make them look unimportant."

Copperwood snorts, "Still hung up over this bogus-making Arena idea?" Rolling his eyes, he murmurs something into the mic clipped to his jaw, most likely a message to Peppi, "I don't even know why you chose to redo the entire Arena again. Our other idea was _perfect_."

My fingers move across the pure white keys of the hologram, trees, rocks, and more popping up after the keys are pressed, "_You_ only think it was perfect because _you_ came up with it, Copperwood," I frown slightly, remembering our previous arena, "Besides, it didn't have any flare to it."

The Gamemaker considers this for a second, scratching his stubble-covered chin, "It had plenty of flare. Don't you remember the giant lily pads?" He spreads his hands, "Genius!"

I roll my eyes, "Please. As if anyone wants to see is a bunch of tributes floating around on a _lily pad_."

"As if anyone wants to see a bunch of tributes riding in—"

"Hello, Felix."

Turning around, I can see President Ember making her way towards me, dressed in a simple red tanktop and brown pants, her hair tied back in a tight pony tail. Somehow, the casual wear makes me fear the President more—as if Ambrosia Ember could ever be considered 'casual'.

Copperwood is the first to rise, a grin on his face as he extends a hand for the President to shake, "Hi, Ambrosia. I was just telling Felix here 'bout how lame his new Arena—"

The President raises a hand, an eyebrow raised, "New Arena?" She turns towards me, "I thought we had all agreed upon the Arena with the big lily-pads? A swamp arena, with larger mutts?"

I wring my hands together, "Well, there's been some _slight_ changes (Yes, Copperwood, I consider them slight), see, I was discussing the Arena with my wife, Anastasia, and she gave me an even better idea."

Ambrosia nudges another Gamemaker, the salt and pepper haired man instantly getting up with a slight bow as he gestures towards the seat. She nods curtly, settling down with her ankles crossed, "Anastasia, hm?" The President ponders the name of my wife, "She was a Gamekeeper, correct?"

Hesitating for a second, I shake my head, "No," I adjust the tie at my neck, tightening the knot, "She was a Peacekeeper in District Four. Anastasia and I just recently had a baby, and she chose to take a mini vacation in order to tend to her."

The President's face begins to glow, a smile spreading across her lips, "I _love_ children! They're just _adorable_, aren't they?"

My throat goes dry. _I wonder what she loves more, _I think, _Seeing a child live or seeing a child die? _Something in the back of my mind tells me its the latter. "Oh, yes. Ginny is the most adorable thing I've ever seen."

Ambrosia reaches towards me, patting my hand, "Good for you, Felix. The gift of a child's birth can certainly brighten up _anyone's_ day."

Copperwood snorts, "Children simply tie a man down. Who needs them?"

The President simply smiles, "Copperwood, didn't your mother ever teach you that if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all?"

He rolls his eyes, running a hand through his neatly-clipped orange and white hair, "My mother was the Head Gamekeeper. She taught me that the Dare family is the best family, and therefore, we speak when we want."

"Don't forget your place, Dare. I'm the President, you're not." As a childish effect, the President digs into her pocket, pulling out a small green card, labelled, 'PRESIDENT EMBER'.

Copperwood scoffs, "And a lousy one at that. You didn't even show up to our meeting today. We were discussing the Arena."

"A President doesn't have to show up anywhere."

"She does if she wants to keep her head."

"Oh, shut up."

"Why don't you?"

"Why don't _yo_—" The President seems to realize how childish she's behaving. Taking a deep breath, she closes her eyes and stands up straighter. "Just show me the new Arena, Felix." She murmurs through gritted teeth.

A weight is lifted off my shoulders, glad the bickering between Copperwood and the President is over. Copperwood really should learn to bite his tongue. The last Gamemaker who got into an argument with Ambrosia didn't show up for work the next day. Copperwood is simply lucky he knew the President before she enrolled into office.

My fingers fly across the hovering screens, pulling up a video. There's a slight silence that fills the room before the video begins to play. The faces of every Victor shows up, flashing one by one. As the last face disappears, the screen erupts into flames.

Sirens begin to blare, a canary suddenly stops singing its four-note-tune. There's a loud crashing sound, the sound of thousands of pounds of rock suddenly collapsing. As soon as it plays, it stops. The gong that's rung before the Games begin every year rings across the control room, followed by own voice signalling the start of the Games.

"I don't understand." The President says as the video comes to an end, the hovering screen slowly shrinking back down to the size of a chocolate chip.

A smile dances across my lips, "Theoretically, President Ember, the Gamemakers are the only ones who are supposed to know about the Arena," I hold a finger up to my lips, "I'm afraid I can't quite tell you yet."

The fire is the President's eyes grow larger, a slight heat radiating off of her face, "I'm the _President," _She murmurs, "The Leader of Panem, controller of the Games. Tell me what the Arena is, Felix. I'm the _President_," Ambrosia repeats.

Copperwood seems pleased watching his old friend squirm, as he drapes an arm around my shoulder casually, "You heard Calise. We can't tell you."

She narrows her eyes, "You told this one," The President jabs a thumb towards Copperwood, "About the Arena, but not _me_?"

I shrug, "He's a Gamemaker. He has to know."  
President Ember seems to have a quiet conversation with herself, lips moving slowly. "Allow me to ask you one question, Felix." I nod, signalling for her to go on.

Her eyes are now staring at the hoverscreen where the video once played, a certain light and hunger in them, "Will these Games be spectacular? Can you promise me they'll be the best Games yet?"

I hold up my hands like I'm surrendering, "I don't make promises, President. Though, if I were you, I'd certainly bet on that."

The President's expression seems to soften, her tensed shoulders slowly reclinging and relaxing. "Good."

"Are you claustrophbic, President Ember?"

She raises an eyebrow, "Of course not," The President spreads her hands in a placating sort of way, "I'm scared of absolutely nothing."

"That's good. I certainly hope the tributes aren't, either. The Games will be quite a rocky road for them, in that case."

* * *

**A/N: I get this chapter was short. It's just taking me a long time to do the final Reaping, so I figured I'd try to just post a little somethin' somethin'. There's a _ton_ of hidden hints in this chapter to do with the Arena. A ton. Have any guesses? Hehe.**

**Also, if you haven't noticed, I've changed the name of the story to 'Tracks'. Demons was more geared to my other Arena idea. Tracks is much more suited for these Games (:**


End file.
